


it would be a hundred times easier if we were young again

by inmoonlightigetseasick



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Secret Identity, Slow Burn, the boarding school secret spy teenager au you didn't know you needed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-12-07 06:32:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18231206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inmoonlightigetseasick/pseuds/inmoonlightigetseasick
Summary: They laughed, and Napoleon felt his heart slipping away from him each time he saw a flash of Illya’s smile. He had, perhaps, fatally underestimated his interest in Illya. But now was not the time to worry about that.Foolishly, he believed it could all still be undone.--AU in which Napoleon is hired by the CIA as a teenager and sent undercover to a prestigious English boarding school to guard Illya who is the emotionally volatile son of a rich Russian businessman with some shady dealings in the US.





	1. Chapter 1

Napoleon stared through the beads of rain on the window as the English countryside passed by in a grey blur. The day was cold but the air felt humid, thick with fog. Napoleon’s head felt similarly. His eyelids were heavy with sleep. It was an ungodly hour. Sanders’ words were filtering into his ears, but he was distracted as he listened. 

“You understand your mission then, correct?”

He hummed in response. He turned his head further away and stared more intently out at the endless, desaturated grass. He thought he saw a cow.

“Solo, need I remind you, your sentence—”

Napoleon’s head whipped back to attention, his irritation mounting, “Thank you, Mr. Sanders, I am aware. You are what stands between me and spending all my days in juvy until I can graduate to regular prison, you have made this clear to me about a thousand times now.”

“Watch your mouth, boy. I took you on because I recognized your talent. I might just fail to recognize it again if you keep this up.”

Napoleon sighed, setting his lips into a grim line. Sanders continued.

“Kuryakin is the last remaining son of a very powerful man, Solo. This mission is of the utmost importance. I don’t want one of your moods messing this up.”

“You said he doesn’t even talk to his father.”

“Yes the boy is estranged from his family. His behaviour and, to be frank, his mental state is volatile. They said he was ruining the family’s reputation with his… outbursts.”

“And _that’s_ why they sent him to the middle of nowhere, England, to some stuck-up boarding school? They could have sent him to jail. Maybe there’s not much of a difference between those two things,” Napoleon mused. Sanders brow furrowed, his grim expression highlighted his every wrinkle. 

“You’ll be a student at Waverley Academy as well so I would watch what you say about it.”

Napoleon rolled his eyes. His all-tweed uniform suddenly felt extremely stuffy. He adjusted his collar uncomfortably, and muttered, “sure is a long shot for a kid from Queens.”

“That doesn’t sound like your cover.”

“Right, my cover. The son of a real estate magnate.”

“And ‘Daddy’s bottomless pockets,’ are the CIA’s, so maintain your cover but control yourself. You aren’t a thief anymore.”

“What was that saying about old dogs and new tricks?”

“I don’t think an eighteen year old boy is exactly senile.”

“Ah, but if you count it in dog years.”

Sanders huffed, annoyed. Napoleon finally cracked a smile. He was still a kid, after all. New to this whole “secret agent” stuff, and he was a little young for it. He’d been training for a couple of years now though, and his demonstrated talent for picking locks and squirming into places too tight for ordinary agents to reach proved his value again and again. That’s precisely why they’d chosen him for this mission, to keep tabs on a fellow teenager. Child labour laws be damned. Nothing about it made him feel comfortable, but he supposed jail would have been even less comfortable. His grin soon disappeared as nervousness washed back over him when the car came to a halt. 

“We’re here.”

The series of buildings that comprised the prestigious Waverley Academy were tall, looming, and gothic. The main building, which Napoleon stared up at now, looked like it came straight out of the Addams Family. Napoleon’s mouth suddenly felt dry, and he wondered what he had gotten himself into. He suddenly felt Sanders come up behind him, his umbrella loomed over Napoleon’s head.

“Your new home. For the next eight months.”

“Oh boy, I can't wait,” Napoleon smiled at Sanders humourlessly. Sanders nudged him and they began to walk up the cobblestone steps to the door. There a man in a fine suit stood waiting for them. He had a genial smile, smooth grey hair, and he looked at Napoleon like he was an old friend. A British Mr. Rogers type. As Napoleon and Sanders came to stand before the man, he greeted Napoleon first, extending his hand. 

“Mr. Solo, a pleasure to meet you. My name is Alexander Waverley, the headmaster of this fine institution.” 

Napoleon dutifully took his hand and gave him the firmest handshake he could muster. Now was not the time to reveal his apprehensions. With Sanders watching, Napoleon’s trademark veneer settled over him. A charming smile lit up his face in a way that he knew was irresistible to nearly everyone, and he said, “An honour, Headmaster Waverley. I am so thrilled to be a part of your amazing school.”

Waverley smiled back and glanced up at Sanders. “This is the first time I’ve seen one so young, Adrian.” Napoleon glanced up at Waverley quizzically, then his gaze flitted to Sanders'reaction.

“Napoleon’s special, Alexander. You’ll see.” 

“I do hope that is the case.”

There was a lull of silence, and then Waverley clapped his hands. “Right-o! Why don’t we get you oriented! What fun!”

Napoleon chuckled and followed the headmaster as he stepped inside the massive Victorian mansion. He glanced back once at Sanders, but he had already turned away, walking towards the car. Napoleon sighed, pushing down his nervousness, and followed Waverley soundlessly.

Their steps echoed down the hallways, the frozen faces of past students and headmasters stared out at them from pictures on the walls. The halls were strangely empty, but Napoleon figured, it was six in the morning, kids might have been in bed still, or at breakfast. Napoleon thought he could feel his own hasty breakfast of an airport coffee sitting tepidly in his stomach. He hadn’t had an appetite for much more, and still didn’t. 

After what seemed like ages of walking in silence, Waverley stopped him at a small room. Its ceiling wasn't very high, and its walls were bare. In terms of furniture it just had a small bed, a desk, and a bookshelf, also empty. A door to the back presumably led to a closet. 

Napoleon stepped into the room and looked around. He set his bags down on the bed and leaned over to push the curtains aside from his window. The rain continued to beat a steady rhythm against the glass windowpane. 

"Alrighty then,” Waverly began, Napoleon stared out the window as he spoke. “I trust you will find these accommodations suitable. Classes take place in the surrounding buildings, the toilets are shared amongst the members of your floor, the boys and girls live on separate floors, and don’t get any ideas about sneaking around, as there are monitors posted in the halls at night. Any questions?”

“Are you usually the one giving this little tour, Headmaster?" 

“Well, no. I am not, Of course, to borrow your supervisor's words, this is something of a special case.”

“Right.”

“I suppose then the further instructions I have to give you are that your schedule has been matched up to Kuryakin’s, as well as your lunch periods. Do try your best to befriend him and report directly to me. I will send everything along to Sanders." 

“I can’t call him?”

“Perhaps in the case of an emergency.”

“Hmm,” this caused a spike of anxiety in Napoleon's chest. He didn't know this Waverley guy and was being asked to report directly to him. It didn't sit well. Waverley didn’t seem to perceive his consternation, if he let any show. He continued, 

“Now, I will say, your situation is a bit odd, as coming in during your final year you will be apart from the students who have been here a substantial while longer. I will instruct one of the students to be your guide for the first few days…”

Napoleon glanced at Waverley as he looked behind him in the halls. He suddenly said, “Jones!" and with a wave brought a boy into the room. Or rather, this boy blustered into the threshold of Napoleon’s room, red-cheeked and out of breath. Napoleon quirked his mouth up into a smile to greet him as he, panting, spoke to Waverley.

“Good morning, Headmaster sir.” 

“Jones, this is a new student who has joined us, why don’t you show him around for the day and help him orient himself?”

“Of course, headmaster.” Jones poked his head into Napoleon's room, and gave him a two-fingered salute. “The name’s Jones, it would be my honour to be your guide today.”

“Splendid! I’ll leave you two to it.” He gave Napoleon a final, conspiratorial glance before taking off. 

“You can call me Napoleon,” he said, walking up to Jones. 

“Right, Napoleon, in about fifteen minutes a certain Illya Kuryakin will be coming to rip my body to shreds.”

Napoleon’s ears quirked up at the mention of Illya's name. He couldn’t help but ask, “Really? Why?”

“He was the monitor on our floor last night, and I’d thought I gotten past him, see, I was sneaking back from Lucy’s room, she’s like this really fit girl in our year and I mean I hadn’t seen her all summer and you know, we were catching up— doesn’t matter, he saw me coming up the stairwell, and—”

Suddenly the thundering sound of footsteps came down the hall and Napoleon stared down at Illya, striding down the hallway with absolute rage in his eyes. He came right up to where Jones hovered in Napoleon’s threshold. He grabbed the red-faced boy by the collar and growled, “You think this is funny, Jones? This is fifth complain I get about you. _Fifth._ ”

“I’m sorry Kuryakin, I—”

“Hey!” Napoleon interjected, maybe against his better judgement. He felt a shiver go through him as Illya fixed his icy gaze on him, not letting go of Jones' collar. “Jones has been here with me this whole time, I swear. The headmaster asked him to show me around. I'm Napoleon,” he said, sticking out his hand, “I’m new.” 

Illya glanced down at the proffered hand suspiciously. Napoleon held his breath. Slowly, the Russian let go of Jones’ collar and Jones breathed heavily in relief. Illya turned fully towards Napoleon. He was only a couple of inches taller, yet he seemed to tower over him. 

“Because you are new I will forgive your naivety. Jones is a perverted bastard, and I hope for your sake he does not teach you to be like him.” With that, Illya turned on his heel and marched away. 

Napoleon was at a loss for words. He felt something almost magnetic draw him forward towards his threshold, and he leaned out watching Illya stalk away. After he turned the corner, the spell broke, and Napoleon did not know how long he had been staring. He suddenly looked back at Jones who finally seemed relaxed, the colour fading from his cheeks. 

“You know, he’s right about me,” Jones said as Napoleon was still a little shocked. 

“You’re a horny bastard?”

He didn't look embarrassed in the slightest, a sight at which Napoleon marvelled. 

“Our Russian friend can be a bit on the prudish side… But don’t worry, mate, I won't corrupt you.”

Napoleon laughed at that. 

“Right, so should we go get some breakfast?” 

“Sure.” Napoleon still didn’t have an appetite, but he figured he’d go through the motions. 

“Follow me, chief,” Jones turned and Napoleon followed, happily listening to his mindless chatter all the way there. 


	2. Chapter 2

The dining hall was just as cavernous as the rest of the rooms at this school. Long tables lined the room lengthwise, and dark, wooden chairs were placed in front of crisp, simple place settings. Long white candles burned in the middle of the tables which, upon closer inspection, appeared to be electric.

“This looks like something out of Harry Potter,” Napoleon mumbled.

“That book was set at a British boarding school, mate, that might be a recurring motif here.” 

Napoleon chuckled. They got their breakfasts and settled at a table with a couple of Jones' friends. Napoleon exchanged niceties with them and chatted, but his focus was immediately drawn to the back of the room. He leaned over to Jones and whispered.

“So what’s his deal? Apart from wanting to kill you, I mean.”

Jones’ gaze followed Napoleon’s to where Illya sat in the far corner of the dining hall. Beside him a girl with blunt bangs and a grim expression whispered furtively in his ear. Napoleon carefully watched his mark’s face as a soft smile ticked up the corners of his mouth. A slight blush coloured his cheeks. Napoleon could feel himself staring. The sharp planes of his face were striking, his eyes were ice blue, but he looked at the girl tenderly, affectionately. It made something churn in Napoleon's stomach. 

He was startled out of his reverie when Jones laughed. 

“Listen, Illya is a nutter. Man’s basically a mammoth, like he’s six foot five. Absolutely terrorizes us with his monitor job. It’s literally the most terrifying thing when he catches you at night cause he’s got this thick Russian accent and he talks to nobody except Gaby. She’s pretty fit, I mean, she’s like German so kind of… intense… but you can usually look past it.”

“Are they a couple?”

“Everyone thinks so, yeah.” 

“Huh,” Napoleon wasn’t sure why he felt a little disappointed at that. The prospect of seducing Illya was out of the question now, and he’d have to resort to finding some other way to get close to him. “Well, that’s no fun.” 

“Yeah, it’s a shame, Gaby’d have a better time with me, I reckon.” 

Napoleon sighed and grabbed his tray. “Thanks Jones, I’ve got geometry. I'd better not be late.”

Jones gave him a salute. Napoleon chuckled and walked away. 

  
Geometry at Waverley was an infamous class. It was taught by Professor Vinciguerra, a dark haired, middle-aged man, whose track record for a short temper and impossible grading made surviving his class a rite of passage. 

It happened to be Napoleon’s first class ever at this school, and a cruel welcome indeed. 

“While you are in my class there will be no talking while I am talking, there will be no distractions, no cell phones, no twiddling your thumbs. I don’t give a damn about your nervous tics, when you are listening to me, I expect your full attention.” He spoke with the gravity and volume of Mussolini giving a particularly impassioned speech. The twinge of his Italian accent only made the image more apt.

Napoleon glanced around at his classmates who were sitting in rapt attention. A nervous energy buzzed throughout the room.

Napoleon felt his pulse quicken as Vinciguerra neared Illya. Strangely, he seemed to watch the boy like a hawk. His fixation on him was suspicious. 

“Mr. Kuryakin. I see you have somehow managed to stick around here.” 

Illya looked like a barely contained explosion. His hands were trembling where they rested on his lap. He stared, with immense concentration, at the chipped wood of the desk in front of him. 

Vinciguerra continued, “Of course with your abysmal temper and disgustingly disrespectful behaviour, it is not clear how long that will be the case.” 

Illya’s finger began to tap a slow rhythm against his thigh. He glanced up at Vinciguerra, and even from his distance Napoleon could read the absolute cold rage in his eyes. 

Vinciguerra continued, “You rich bastards need to ask your daddies for anger management lessons. My classroom is not a stage to entertain your drama.

He seemed to address the whole class now but his gaze was still fixed on Illya. For his part, his trembling was only getting worse. Napoleon watched as he furtively reached his hand over to his wrist to rub the watch that he wore there, as if it brought him some comfort. 

It didn’t escape Vinciguerra’s notice. 

“And we have here an absolutely prime example of the type of _misbehaviour_ ,” he spat, “that I am talking about.”

Vinciguerra loomed over Illya. It felt like the whole room was holding its breath. 

“Mr. Kuryakin,” he boomed, slamming his fist down on Illya’s desk. Napoleon watched as he was visibly shaken, the taps of his fingers getting subtly faster. 

“I will not tolerate this distraction from you in my class. Might I remind you that though you might have a rich father that bloody criminal is not going to affect my behaviour towards you, you will behave and goddamn it— stop twitching!”

He slammed his hand down on Illya’s desk again. This time, Illya shot up. 

“How dare you speak that way to me?!”

Vinciguerra was fuming now, but Illya wouldn’t back down. It was a little awkward because Vinciguerra was slightly shorter than Illya, so he looked up at him while he yelled and sputtered, which lessened the effect a little. Regardless, Illya was shaken. 

“How dare I? For your insolence you can get out of my classroom this instant!”

Illya’s chest heaved but it seemed like he wasn’t going to fight any longer. As he moved to leave however, Vinciguerra’s hand suddenly snatched his wrist. He turned back in alarm.

“But I will be confiscating this,” he said with determination, deftly undoing the old and rather plain looking watch on Illya’s wrist. He marched it to the front of the classroom and placed it into his desk drawer as Illya watched, shaking. 

“Well what are you waiting for you oaf? Get out! Now!”

Illya looked shellshocked but he did as he was told, leaving his books on his desk, he left. 

“Now you all understand what happens if you misbehave,” Vinciguerra said to the class. They stared back at him in stunned silence. “Turn your books to page 3,” he said into the silence and he turned his back to them to scribble equations on the chalkboard behind him.

Napoleon was not quite sure what he had just witnessed, but he felt equal parts horrified and curious. What was the sensitivity around this watch? What did Vinciguerra have against Illya? Napoleon filed these away carefully in his brain, and in his notebook in lieu of geometry homework. 

His head was filled with it all through lunch. Jones had joined him and was blathering about something. Napoleon noted Illya’s distinct absence from the dining hall. He observed however that Illya wasn’t Gaby’s only friend. Despite her severe look, he noticed her smiling and chatting with other girls over her lunch. He liked the look of her. She caught him staring and shot him a glare that could kill. He grinned back. She mostly ignored him. 

After lunch, Napoleon saw Illya in the rest of his classes, as had been arranged. He watched as the boy constantly rubbed at the absence of the watch on his wrist. He watched his expression change every time he realized it was missing, the slight furrow of his brow. Something about Illya’s look pained Napoleon. It was like he was experiencing actual loss. Napoleon deduced that the watch was probably sentimental, it wasn’t anything special to look at. He wondered if he could get close enough to learn its special meaning. 

After an absentminded dinner, Napoleon had a quick debrief in Waverley’s office. 

“So I trust your first day went alright.” 

“Mostly unremarkable.”

“And Kuryakin…”

“I was unable to make contact today.”

“Well, no worries there’s the rest of the semester for that.” 

“I suppose so,” Napoleon itched to leave. 

“Is something troubling you?” Waverley asked after a long pause. 

“It’s just…” he wondered if he should raise concerns to Waverley about the incident with Vinciguerra. Perhaps it wouldn’t matter to Waverley, as he didn’t bring it up himself even though he surely knew about it. Napoleon supposed a bit of yelling and a confiscated watch wasn’t a crime exactly. And after all, Waverley had hired Vinciguerra, so who was to say he would take any criticisms well, especially on Napoleon’s first day.

“It’s just that I’m adjusting,” Napoleon finally said. 

“Well, I wish you the best of luck with that process, do not hesitate to let me know if anything suspicious arises. Get a good night’s sleep. Breakfast is only until 9:30!”

With that, Napoleon took his leave and made his way back to his room, guilt sitting like a heavy stone in the pit of his stomach. 


	3. Chapter 3

That night Napoleon couldn't sleep. He tossed and turned in his bed thinking about what had happened in Geometry. When Sanders had told him about Illya being “volatile” he had had no idea that this was what it was like. Although it was a short outburst, Napoleon could see the palpable danger in provoking Illya. He had this undeniable raw power, violence, and brute force simmering beneath his severe exterior. Napoleon could understand how it alienated Illya so much from the rest of his peers. But it only made Napoleon want to get closer. 

He sat up, finally tired of thinking. He quietly padded over to his door. Grabbing the handle he took a deep breath then he turned it. The door creaked traitorously as he stepped out into the hallway in his pyjamas and his robe. He turned his head and made eye contact immediately with Illya who was sitting at his post. He had another shift of monitor duty that night. 

Napoleon could not tell what was happening behind Illya’s icy glare. He decided to test the fires. With his slippers softening his footsteps, he padded over to where Illya sat, coming to a stop right in front of him he leaned against the wall.

“Hi,” he said.

Illya looked at him suspiciously, “What is it?”

“Oh, nothing… can’t someone just say hello these days?”

Illya paused, as if to seriously consider Napoleon’s question.

“You are American?”

“Yes…”

“American never _just_ say hello. Always ulterior motive.” 

Napoleon’s brow furrowed but he smiled. “You shouldn’t judge me before you get to know me.”

“I do not want to get to know you.” 

“Well that’s a shame. I’d like to get to know you.” 

“Why?”

Napoleon didn’t skip a beat. “Well, have you seen yourself lately? Who wouldn’t be interested?”

Napoleon looked right at Illya and fixed him with a dazzling smile. Illya’s expression remained unchanged, but he couldn’t hide the sudden red blush that coloured his cheeks. Napoleon did not think it was possible but he felt even more delighted at the sight, his grin growing wider. 

Then Illya’s brow furrowed. “You have the wrong tree bark.” 

That gave Napoleon pause, “What?”

“American idiom, you do not know it?”

“Uh, I think it’s ‘you’re barking up the wrong tree,’” Napoleon corrected, trying his best not to laugh at him. He did not want to seem like he was laughing at his mistake, but rather his smile was because of how adorable Illya looked while confused. 

Regardless, the Russian got even more frustrated. 

“I will give you five minutes,” he said, suddenly calm, “to go back to bed before I report you to Waverley.” 

“No! You wouldn’t dare!” Napoleon wondered if the sarcasm in his voice would translate. Illya’s unamused stare gave some indication. 

“I understand. You are new. You are unaware of the consequences for your actions here. Trust me, you will not be as free here as perhaps you are accustomed.” 

Napoleon looked at Illya, at a slight loss for words. 

“You know you’re right actually.” 

“What?”

“I’m new. I don’t get how things work around here.”

“Yes that is what I am saying.”

“But maybe that’s a good thing?” 

“What?” 

“Maybe we can use this to our advantage.” 

“I do not understand.” 

“I’m not used to the way you deal with problems around here. Maybe I have my own perspectives on these things.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Let’s go steal back your watch from Vinciguerra’s office.” 

Illya visibly stilled. 

“Absolutely not. That is worst idea I have ever heard. We will not do that.” 

“Oh come on! Live a little, Kuryakin!”

“Headmaster Waverley has made me monitor, do you have any idea what that means?”

“Does it mean you have to legally be a killjoy?”

Illya’s lips were set in a grim line at Napoleon’s attempt at a joke. “No. It means that I uphold the rules I do not break them.” 

“What does it even matter if nobody knows?”

“It matters because there are rules! There are principles here! If you don’t like them you can get back on your horse, Cowboy, and ride away to where such things do not matter because here, they matter!"

Napoleon was a little stunned at his outburst. Still he refused to relent. 

“I’m sure Vinciguerra is beholden to these rules as well, isn’t he?”

“Of course.” 

“Then how do you propose we let him go around being an absolute _bully_ to students? Surely that’s against the rules. Against any code of professional conduct. I mean come on this is a prep school not the gulags!”

Illya scoffed but Napoleon could see how he bristled. 

“What, you want him to be more Stalin-esque?” He asked with exaggerated disbelief, “does that make the Red Peril feel more at home?” 

Illya’s gaze shot over to him, it was cold and humourless. “Vinciguerra is a teacher and I do not have any authority over him.”

“But he’s _abusing_ his authority!” 

Something seemed to snap in Illya, he suddenly got up off of his chair and stepped forward to tower over Napoleon. “So what do you propose we do? Break into his office and play prank like children?”

A slow smile spread across Napoleon’s face. “Why, precisely!” 

Illya looked dumbfounded, but he quickly steeled his expression. “I will have no part in this.”

“Aw, that’s no fun!” Napoleon pouted, but it didn’t look like he was going to change Illya’s mind. He thought for a moment and then turned around, marching towards the stairs. He looked back and sure enough Illya was staring after him curiously. Napoleon supposed he was a monitor and thus had to. He called back, “Say, does Gaby live upstairs?”

Illya’s brow furrowed. “Why do you want to know?” 

“No reason at all,” Napoleon grinned, taking Illya’s shocked expression as an answer. 

“Going to girls’ floors after hours is not permitted!” he shouted but his voice faded as Napoleon bounded up the staircase. For the record he had no idea where Gaby’s room was but he was hoping that he had been just annoying enough that Illya would lead him to where he was trying to go. 

Sure enough, he heard the heavy footfalls coming up behind him. 

“Come back here!” the Russian giant said in a terse whisper, Napoleon picked up his pace, finally arriving at a wooden door, he pushed it open. He stared down a long corridor of identical wooden doors. This is where he hit the snag in his plan. 

However, as luck would have it, Gaby turned the corner just as Illya burst into the hallway behind him. She held a toothbrush in her hand and a towel, having just stepped out of the bathroom.

“Well, what are the odds?” Napoleon asked, calmly sauntering up to Gaby, “the whole team is here.” 

Gaby looked at him, unimpressed. “And you are?” her slightly German lilt made all five foot four of her seem almost intimidating, even as she stared up at him through her heavy fringe

“Napoleon Solo,” he grinned and stuck out his hand. 

“Gaby,” Illya said from behind him, “do not listen to him, he is new student, and he happens to be insane.”

“That’s generous of you, Peril.” Napoleon turned around and flashed him a grin, but turned quickly back to Gaby. “How would you like to get some revenge for what happened today?” 

“It would depend on what you are talking about. A lot happened today.” 

“Vinciguerra.” 

“What are we doing to him?”

“Gaby, you cannot be serious about this—” Illya piped up fruitlessly. Napoleon’s grin somehow grew wider with the victory. He turned back to Illya. 

“Join the party or get left behind, pal.”

“I am not your pal. Gaby is not going anywhere with you.”

“Oh but I am. That bastard will pay for what he did today.”

“That’s right!” Napoleon could barely keep himself from pumping his fists in the air. 

“What exactly is your plan?” 

Napoleon looked expectantly at Illya, who was bewildered by this turn of events. He looked back and forth between Napoleon and Gaby, as if they had broken him. Finally he sighed and joined their huddle in the middle of the hallway. 

“So it’s a simple extraction…” Napoleon explained. Illya would keep watch for the other monitor as they snuck into the main building. As a fellow narc he was the obvious distraction for them as they would never suspect him of any wrongdoing. With him watching their backs, they would make a quick pitstop at the kitchens and then onwards to Vinciguerra’s classroom. Illya would remain keeping watch as Gaby and Napoleon made their way into the office, retrieved the watch, and left a… special surprise for Vinciguerra in the morning. 

When Napoleon finished, Illya looked like he was going to kill him and Gaby looked like she could marry him. 

“So I’m sensing mixed reviews on the plan?”

Illya huffed, “is good plan, except for one thing.”

“What?”

“My monitor shift is from ten to midnight, it is nearly half past eleven now, there is no way we can do this before the next monitor comes to take my place, finds me missing and reports us all to Waverley.”

“Don’t be so defeatist, now. Harder things have been accomplished in thirty minutes,” Napoleon tried to reason, but Illya was stone-faced. He looked helplessly to Gaby.

“The more we talk about it the more time we waste,” and with that, Gaby stepped out of the huddle and was down the hallway like a shot. Illya looked dumbly behind her, thinking for a minute and then following her, trying to make his steps deliberately softer. Napoleon thought he might have heard him muttering something about this being doomed mixed in with plenty of Russian curse words. Smiling, he trailed the three of them checking behind him that no one was following.

The emptiness of the school building was eerie in an uncanny way. Their steps seemed to make extra loud sounds in the silence, despite their careful effort to soften their footfalls. 

When they arrived at the kitchen, Illya tried the door. He turned the knob and it stuck. 

“As I thought, it is locked,” he whispered, “let’s go back!”

Gaby looked discouraged for a second, but she glanced at Napoleon. 

“Don’t give up so easy, Peril.” Napoleon grinned. Illya frowned at him. 

Napoleon stepped closer to Gaby and whispered in her ear, too quiet for Illya to hear. This made his frown deepen. 

Gaby’s smile lit up the dark and quickly she ran her fingers through her hair, triumphantly retrieving a thin hairpin that she deposited in Napoleon’s open, waiting palm. 

Napoleon brandished the pin to Illya, grinning. The Russian rolled his eyes, but then quickly stepped back in shock as Napoleon suddenly sank down to his knees in front of him. 

“What are you doing?”

Napoleon looked up at him, illuminated only by the blue moonlight streaming in through the windows. “Just watch.”

Within seconds of fiddling Napoleon heard the click he was waiting for. He shot up, and turned the knob, this time it released easily and the three of them quietly slipped into the kitchen. 

When they emerged, Napoleon and Gaby darted out first and Illya trailed behind, carefully hauling a gigantic, deep tray of gravy in both his hands. It was covered with only a thin film of plastic wrap, and his face was the picture of concentration as he walked to prevent the brown liquid from splashing over the sides. It was as gross as it sounds.

They made their way as quickly as possible to Vinciguerra’s office, and with no delay Napoleon was picking the lock. Gaby entered first, and Napoleon followed with Illya behind him. Just as Illya was about to enter, Napoleon turned and took the gravy from him. 

“You stay outside and keep watch.”

Illya looked annoyed but didn’t argue. In the darkness, however, Napoleon noticed the mirth in his expression as he watched the American struggle with the gravy.

In a matter of minutes, Napoleon had broken into the desk drawers and carefully picked out Illya’s watch. In the process, he took his time investigating the drawer’s contents. He had a bad feeling about Vinciguerra. He found the usual confiscated video games and cell phones, these he carefully picked out and set aside to return to their owners in due time. Apart from that there was nothing extraordinary. Idly, he shuffled through some of the papers in the bottom of the drawer, and that’s when he saw something that made his suspicions about Vinciguerra snap back into sharp focus. It was a simple file folder, unlabelled, but in Napoleon’s shuffling around the desk he had managed to knock some of its contents out. They were photos of Illya. 

Napoleon felt a chill run through him. His suspicions were all but concerned. But this meant something harsher than just a prank would have to be done. 

For the time being, Gaby was becoming impatient and their prank would have to be completed anyway. 

With the subtlest of motions, Napoleon grabbed the folder from the bottom of the desk, and stuffed it into his pocket while distracting Gaby with a question, “Can you go check with Illya to see if the coast is still clear?” It wasn’t one of his best but it got no worse a response than a furrowed brow from Gaby. 

Then, with the file secured, into the desk he tipped litres of gravy until it was filled to the brim. As gently as he could, Napoleon pushed the drawer closed. With a napkin he cleaned up any traces of it left behind. 

With the now much lighter tray in hand, Napoleon and Gaby ducked out of the office and signalled to Illya that the deed was done. Gaby ran ahead to check for monitors. This was when Napoleon pressed the watch into Illya’s hand. The touch of their fingers made Napoleon’s skin tingle in a strange way, but he decided to ignore that feeling for a while, just as he ignored the look Illya was giving him at the moment. A mixture of gratitude and confusion. He walked ahead. 

Again, that feeling got the better of him. As he turned the corner he nearly pummelled right into the back of a monitor. 

When he realized his mistake, he scuttled backwards around the corner as fast as he could, before the guard even had time to turn around. He met Illya and Gaby’s bewildered expressions with eyes as wide as saucers. He said only this, “run.”

They scrambled back the way they came, ducking down into hallways and separating. The footfalls of the watchman, probably another student, but with the terrifying potential to be part of the staff or an actual authority figure. 

“Who’s there?” The guard said into the dark hallway, his voice echoing in the empty darkness. Napoleon, Illya, and Gaby each held their breath, backs pressed against a different hiding place. Napoleon had ducked into a broom closet, and Illya into another classroom, Gaby was inside of a locker. 

The footfalls got quieter and the monitor seemed to retreat into another part of the building. Napoleon stepped out of his hiding spot first and taking their cues, Gaby and Illya followed. They cautiously came together listening as the monitor got farther and farther away. 

“Five minutes to spare until your shift, Peril,” Napoleon grinned, far too confident for the situation they were in. 

Almost as divine retribution, the monitor’s footfalls suddenly seemed to get louder in their direction again. “Who’s there?” the booming voice sounded again. 

This time Gaby bolted for the door leading out of the school, “Run!” 

The three of them bounded outside, gingerly closing the door behind them. Gaby and Napoleon went immediately into Napoleon’s room while Illya waited for his replacement monitor. After they traded shifts, clandestinely, he made his way into Napoleon’s room as well and closed the door behind him, slumping back against it, exhausted. 

They all sat for a moment in the bewilderment of what they had just done. The three of them looked at each other in shock, until Napoleon broke the silence by bursting out into a wheezing laugh. Gaby and Illya began to laugh as well, it was uncontrollable. 

“That was _insane_ ,” Napoleon said between giggles. 

“Why did you do that?” Illya breathed, and he leaned his head against Napoleon’s door, fixing his pointed gaze at Napoleon once again. Napoleon’s laughs died in his throat, and he squirmed a little at the intensity in Illya’s stare. 

“I don’t know? For fun? He deserved it?”

“He’s a pathetic, cruel old man,” Gaby added.

“But he was cruel to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he took _my_ watch. Did you do this for me?”

Napoleon’s mouth felt suddenly very dry. 

“Well, I—“

“I believe he did it for the common good, Illya.” Gaby spoke up suddenly. 

“It was just the first injustice I saw,” Napoleon added, a little weakly. He wasn’t sure if it was just what his brain wanted but he thought he saw a flicker of disappointment in Illya’s face. He was probably just hallucinating, it was gone a second after it was there. His gaze turned back to Gaby.

“Well, I can say Napoleon, I officially like you.”

“Me too,” Illya added, and those two small words Napoleon’s stupid heart jump.

“Well, I like you guys too. Friends?”

Gaby and Illya gave each other a glance and then looked over at him. “Friends,” they said in unison. And all of them broke out into peals of laughter once again. 

Napoleon looked at the two of them fondly, then his eyes lit up as he remembered his suitcase. Everything that he had brought to Waverley had been screened carefully by Sanders, but Napoleon would have been a traitor to himself had he not successfully smuggled at least a few contraband items. He scrambled up from the floor and went over to said suitcase and began to rummage. 

“I’ve got just the thing to celebrate right now,” he said, his head buried in his case. Illya and Gaby looked over at him inquisitively, as after rooting through the very lining of his case he emerged victoriously with a bottle of brandy.

“I was wrong, Napoleon, I _love_ you” Gaby exclaimed, getting to her feet and taking the bottle from his hands. She kissed the bottle in her excitement, then she got on her tiptoes and kissed Napoleon’s cheek. 

He smiled, surprised, and glanced at Illya who was just looking at them with a small smile on his face. No hint of jealousy, even though his apparent girlfriend had just kissed another man. This made a dangerous set of gears turn in Napoleon’s head. 

He pulled out some glasses he had taken from the kitchen. Handing one to Illya and Gaby he poured them each a drink, and then one for himself. 

“How about a toast?” He suggested. 

Gaby raised her glass, “To Napoleon!”

He grinned, raising his own, “To new friends!”

Illya looked at them for a moment before raising his own, “To breaking the rules.”

There was silence. Then Illya cracked a smile, “within reason.”

Gaby and Napoleon laughed and cheered. They clinked their glasses and each took a sip. Gaby and Illya shuddered as it went down and Napoleon smirked. 

“What, you guys never snuck a sip of daddy’s drink on New Years before?” Napoleon glanced between the two of them as uncomfortable expressions took over their faces. Outwardly, he shrugged and took another sip of his drink muttering, “Europeans… you’d think…” 

Gaby suddenly tapped the sides of her glass, clearly looking to change the subject, “So, Napoleon, what’s next?” 

Even Illya looked surprised at her question. Napoleon smiled, “whatever do you mean?”

“Vinciguerra is just the beginning. We can take our vigilante justice to so many more of the creeps at this school.” 

“Whoa there Gaby, let’s let the excitement of this one pass before we jump into anything new.” 

“But why? Shouldn’t we keep the momentum going?”

“I don’t know how much rule breaking our Russian friend here can take at once.” 

Gaby rolled her eyes, “Don’t worry about Illya.” 

“I am sitting right here,” he complained. Napoleon tried not to think about how cute he looked when he pouted like that. He turned his attention back to Gaby. 

“Gaby, darling, listen to me. When need the need comes for another mission we will do it. At least I will promise to be there with you every step of the way. However, we can’t just unleash chaos all at once, they’ll trace it back to us. Believe me, I’ve been kicked out of enough of these academies to know.” 

Illya and Gaby both looked at him curiously then. He purposely let them stew in that mystery. 

Gaby looked at him for a long moment and then tipped her head back and finished her drink all in one gulp. She shook her head, feeling the burn, and then steeled her gaze back on Napoleon. 

“If you say so,” she said finally. Slamming down her glass she left Napoleon’s room in a rush, pushing Illya aside to get out the door. 

This seemed to shock Illya out of some daze. “I should leave too.”

He stood up quickly and set his glass down. He had barely taken a sip. It was good stuff too, Napoleon wrinkled his nose at the lack of appreciation. He supposed only Russian vodka would do for him. 

“Aren’t you glad I wanted to get to know you better?” Napoleon asked as Illya was halfway out the door. 

“What is the American saying? The jury is still out to lunch.” 

Napoleon laughed. In fact, he fell asleep with a grin on his face and the brandy running through his veins made him to warm to analyze that feeling too much. 


	4. Chapter 4

The morning after their prank, the halls were buzzing with the news of what they had done. However, no one knew it was them who had done it. Enjoying no newfound celebrity, Napoleon instead found himself sitting with Gaby and Illya at breakfast, with a secret a source of camaraderie between them that had not been there just the day before. At his new table of misfits, Napoleon watched how Illya ate like a machine, tray piled high with eggs, all hoovered in without a thought. Gaby was hardly more delicate, chewing methodically and speaking very little. She wasn’t really a morning person, and the alcohol from last night did not help her sunny disposition. 

“I should have warned you, it was more of a sipping brandy.” 

“Noted for next time,” Gaby smiled around her toast. 

Napoleon noticed Jones staring at him from across the lunch room, looking up he gave the boy a two-fingered salute. He looked unsure. 

“I’m gonna go ask Jones about those soccer tryouts, catch up with you in English, Kuryakin.” 

Illya’s expression was unchanged as he watched Napoleon go.

“Morning, mate,” Jones said as Napoleon walked up to him, “you get lost coming to breakfast today?”

“No, I was just sitting with Gaby and Illya, my new friends.”

“Aw, you’re taking the piss. Friends with _them_ after _one day?_ Most of us have known them for years and have made no progress. Especially with Kuryakin.”

“I guess I’m just that likeable.” 

“I’ll say. Well hats off to you.”

“Thanks, Jones.” 

Napoleon laughed and turned to walk down the hall. Approaching him was none other than Vinciguerra. As they passed each other in the halls, Napoleon kept his expression fairly neutral, even as he saw steam practically blowing out of Vinciguerra’s ears. He looked to be making a beeline for Waverley’s office, Napoleon watched however as he paused in the entrance of the dining hall and looked right at Illya. Suspicious.

Glad to have avoided suspicion then and spent the day after the prank in relative quiet, geometry the next morning was quite the reckoning. 

“I know one of you thought it hilarious to defile and vandalize this classroom and my property, but rest assured Waverley is well aware of this indiscretion and he has authorized me to be the arbiter of my own punishment towards the guilty party.”

The classroom was frozen still with tension. 

“I will start my interrogation,” Vinciguerra began, “with the most likely candidate.”

Like clockwork, he sidled up to Illya and glared, “Where were you two nights ago?”

“I had a monitor shift until midnight and then I went to my room and fell asleep. The monitor after me that night was Peter Marlowe, if you do not believe me you can ask him or check the logs that I was there.” 

“A very prepared alibi for a likely criminal,” Vinciguerra responded. The class looked at him, incredulous, but Illya only looked weary. 

“I can prove I was not here, you cannot prove I was.” 

“Alright then, if you can prove so much then why don’t you tell me who did it? You certainly talk amongst yourselves, I will entertain even a rumour.” 

Illya was silent, although his fingers began to twitch and tap that familiar rhythm on his leg. Napoleon knew there was no way he was going to throw any of their classmates under the bus, but beads of sweat still formed on his brow. 

“No one knows who did it, no one has taken credit,” Illya responded. 

“So then you are telling me that I should punish everyone.” 

There were some scattered gasps from the classroom. 

“Until someone confesses, at the end of term, I will fail every single one of you with a grade lower than an A in this class, and don’t worry, you’ll have many chances to make up your grades because there will be a quiz every class.” 

There were muffled groans from the class, Napoleon even thought he heard someone burst into tears. 

Vinciguerra wasn’t even finished, “But for you Kuryakin, for obstruction of justice, repeating the sins of your degenerate, criminal father—“

That was when Illya snapped, he shot up from his desk, and shouted right in Vinciguerra’s face, “Do not. Speak. About. My Father.” His voice was eerily calm.

“I will say whatever I like, and if you don’t like it you can get out of my class right now. Do not bother coming back.”

This time, though it was an old habit, Illya blew past him and out of the classroom. Napoleon watched Vinciguerra’s hand go out in an abortive move to snatch Illya’s watch again, but he was too slow and Illya anticipated the movement. Vinciguerra watched him leave, seething. 

It was then that Napoleon had had enough, standing up and gathering his books, he said to Vinciguerra simply, “you are a fucking piece of work, man.” And he calmly walked out of the classroom before the professor could say anything in reply. 

Napoleon peered down the hallway to see if he could spot where Kuryakin had run. There was no sign of him, and then Napoleon saw the slight swinging of the door that led into the stairwell. He rushed over and pushed the door open. His chest tightened, taken aback by the sight of the Russian giant, so intimidating and fierce, curled into a corner of the stairwell, trying to make himself as small as possible. His head rested on his knees where they were tucked up to his chest. His shoulders trembled.

Napoleon approached cautiously. Keeping his distance, like he was nearing a wild animal, he sat next to Illya. He said nothing, just offering his presence. Illya took short, shallow breaths, trying to keep himself from sobbing outright. Napoleon ached to reach out, rub comforting circles on his back. He somehow felt that would be ill advised in this moment. 

Finally, after what seemed like many long moments, Illya’s breathing became more regular. He lifted his head to look up at Napoleon. He wiped his cheeks with his hands, the rims of his eyes red. “I’m sorry,” he apologized quietly.

Napoleon’s brow furrowed. “Don’t apologize. I’m sorry that happened. I’m sorry I couldn’t do anything.”

“You have done enough,” Illya probably meant this to sound harsher than it did, his voice was weary and his expression gave away far too much. 

Napoleon’s heart literally ached to see him so vulnerable and small. He felt a shiver of panic in recognizing these feelings, but he quickly put away those thoughts, turning instead to thinking about how to address this situation.

“Can you promise not to punch me in the next five minutes.”

“No.”

“Okay. Well, I’m going for it anyway. Now, this is what friends do in times like this out in the Wild West.” 

Illya cracked a smile at that, but it quickly vanished as Napoleon leaned closer towards him, his arms tentatively reaching towards him. Napoleon, kneeling, wrapped Illya in a firm hug, nestling his head on the other boy’s shoulder, and pressing himself tight against him. With his hand Napoleon rubbed large, soothing circles on Illya’s back, and was surprised at his reaction. Illya took a deep breath which to Napoleon almost sounded relieved, and comfortable. He leaned his own head against Napoleon’s shoulder, and tentatively his arms wrapped back around Napoleon as well. 

Napoleon, for his part hoped that Illya could not feel how hard his heart was beating and knew that was completely impossible as it was literally pressed against his chest. But the feeling of touching Illya like this was absolutely intoxicating. The smell of his hair, his sweat, the softness of his uniform. 

A distant clatter of footsteps on the stairs above them was enough to startle them apart. Napoleon self consciously wiped his sweaty palms on his pants, looking at Illya with a sheepish smile. Illya furtively brushed the tears from beneath his eyes and looked stalwartly away. He cleared his throat. 

“Thank you,” he murmured. 

“Of course.” 

“I will go to my room,” Illya suddenly picked himself up then and began to walk up the stairs. Napoleon watched him go. Taking a deep breath he went back into the hallway.

His suspicions were all but confirmed. Vinciguerra was no normal teacher. Napoleon walked past the classroom, making a beeline for Waverley’s office. Rushing past his secretary, Napoleon forced his way into the room. 

He paused momentarily, surprised to see Sanders there. 

By way of greeting, his handler could only bark out a rough, “Napoleon?”

“Vinciguerra is a plant.” 

“Sorry, what?” Waverley said. 

Napoleon reached into his backpack, rifling around until he found the folder containing the photos of Illya. He brandished them for a moment before slamming them on Waverley’s desk. 

“See for yourself, I found these in his desk.”

“What were you doing in his desk?” Waverley asked, then he looked at Napoleon for a minute, recognition sparking in his eyes. “Never mind it,” he said and he began to pore over the photos. 

“These are military grade reconnaissance images,” Waverley murmured. He looked up, glancing first at Sanders, then at Napoleon, “this isn’t good.” 

“No shit!” Napoleon couldn’t help himself. Sanders shot him a warning look. “I’m sorry, Mr. Waverley but you have to do something about this. I’m sure Illya has told you Vinciguerra has been torturing him, yelling at him, humiliating him in front of class—”

“Mr. Kuryakin has told me precisely nothing,” Waverley interrupted, his voice grave. 

Napoleon closed his eyes, frustrated, “Of course he wouldn’t. ‘It is not the Russian way,’” he said in an imitation of Illya’s accent. 

“Rest assured, Solo, this will be dealt with immediately,” Sanders chimed in.

Napoleon turned to them, “Okay great, what do we do?”

“Nice try, kid. This is above your pay grade.” 

“Come on! I’ve been training for nearly three years now, I can handle this.”

“Believe me, you can’t.”

“Here’s what you can do, Napoleon,” Waverley said then, “Keep an eye on Kuryakin tonight. Hang out with him, whatever. If Vinciguerra catches wind that we’re onto him he might try something drastic tonight.” 

Napoleon let out a shaky breath. He did not know why he was so affected by this but at Waverley’s words, every molecule in his being wanted to rush to Illya’s side right then. 

“Okay. I can do that.” 

“Good. Dismissed,” Sanders said gruffly. 

“It was good to see you, too,” was the last snide remark Napoleon made before rushing out of the office. 


	5. Chapter 5

That night, Napoleon decided to keep Illya company during his monitoring shift again. Whether this was welcome… well…

“The American expression is ‘the jury is still out,’ not ‘to lunch,’”

“Explain to me, where are they then?”

“I don’t know, deliberating? You know _Twelve Angry Men_ , they’re in that room talking about the case!”

“I do not know that film.”

“Well, we’ll have to watch it together sometime.”

Illya looked skeptical. Napoleon sighed. 

“Maybe you and Gaby can watch it together.”

“Without you?"

“Well, I wouldn’t want to get between you two.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you’re together, aren’t you?”

“We are friends.”

“I was under the impression it was something more."

“You were wrong.” 

“She’s beautiful.”

“Yes, I know this.”

“She’s smart and funny and you like her.”

“We are friends, Napoleon. If you would like to date her…”

“No!” Napoleon realized he said that too forcefully, “It’s… uh, it’s not that I mean I would be so lucky to date her. I just thought you two were together.” 

“You shouldn’t believe what Jones tells you.” 

Napoleon laughed nervously. Inside his chest, there was an expansive feeling of relief. Mentally, he slapped himself for feeling this way. A silence then hung between them, stretching out into the absurd lateness of the hour. 

“Why won’t you date her, then?” Illya asked suddenly. 

Napoleon froze. He was unsure of what to say, feeling pinpricks of sweat on his forehead. He swallowed, then, looking right at Illya, he said, “I’m kind of holding a candle for someone else.”

Illya looked at him for a long moment, but Napoleon could not read what was on his face. Perhaps he was puzzled by the idiom. For his own part, Napoleon’s gaze faltered and he turned his eyes to the ground and steadfastly studied a slight scuff mark on one of his shoes. He would have to deal with that. He really shouldn’t have said that.

“Best of luck, Cowboy,” Illya finally broke the silence, “with whoever it is.”

“Thanks.” Another heavy silence. 

“Anyway, Gaby and I would both need someone to translate the Americanisms.” 

“I might be your only option there.” Napoleon grinned, lopsided. 

Illya looked at him again, another of the many long gazes he and Napoleon shared that evening. Suddenly he broke it, looking down the hallway behind Napoleon. It was another student coming to relieve Illya from his shift, Napoleon looked down at his watch, momentarily bewildered, it was almost two in the morning. 

“Wow, that just flew by.” 

“Sed fugit interea fugit irreparabile tempus”

“What?”

“But it flees meanwhile: irretrievable time flees. It’s Vergil.”

“Wow, so you know Latin sayings but not American ones.”

That startled a laugh out of Illya. “Goodnight, Cowboy.”

“Goodnight to you too, Peril.” 

Napoleon watched as Illya traded off with the other monitor. He turned and went to the bathroom. He splashed cold water on his face which was burning, he was so colossally screwed. 

Being a spy of sorts meant that often, Napoleon had his hackles up. So then, when Jones accosted him in the hallway on his way back from the bathroom, it took everything in a startled Napoleon’s power not to impale the poor boy with his toothbrush. 

“Fuck! Jones, you’re gonna give me a heart attack.”

“Napoleon, I had to come to you now and only now, the monitors are switching shifts and this is of the utmost secrecy.” 

Napoleon furrowed his brow and wordlessly grabbing Jones by the forearm, he dragged him back into the bathroom. 

“It’s empty, what’s up?”

Jones still peered under the stalls to make sure they were alone. “This weekend, mate, we are getting out of this dump."

“What? How?”

“It’s a long story, but a friend of Lucy’s cousin’s boyfriend who lives in town has a car and is willing to take a bunch of us into town!”

“That’s awesome!"

“Consider this your official invite.”

“Wow, thanks!”

“And of course we invited you because you’re really cool and all… but we were wondering if you’d bring Gaby along.”

“And Illya?” 

“Well… maybe just Gaby.”

“Look, you’ll like him when you get to know him. He’s a lot of fun, he’s just a little closed off.”

“I’m not sure.”

Napoleon chuckled, “anyway, Gaby won’t come without him, she and Illya are package deal.”

Jones looked at him for a minute, “Are you sure it’s them that’s a package deal or you two?”

Napoleon was momentarily shocked by the question, but he plastered on a smile so Jones wouldn’t think so, “well, I don’t know exactly what you’re implying, Jones, but we’re friends.” 

“Friends,” Jones hummed. He was thoughtful for a moment, which was out of character for Jones, but then he said, “Ah fine, bring em both! Plenty of room!” 

“Great! You’re a champ,” Napoleon said, bumping the other boy’s shoulder on the way out. 

That night, Napoleon barely slept, buzzing with excitement about the weekend ahead. He had gotten more stir crazy than he had anticipated within the walls of Waverley Academy. Having never gone to a school like this before, he was almost glad for his ramshackle childhood, he almost missed the understaffed, underfunded chaos of an American public school. He missed excitement. Also, meeting new people would get his mind off of the mission for a little bit, and Illya would still be with them, but Napoleon could try and focus on other things. At least, he hoped he could. 

The next morning he approached Gaby and Illya about the trip. He almost felt like he was pitching a business idea to two stone faced millionaires. 

“Come on, guys it’ll be fun! Aren’t you sick of hanging around here all the time? And Illya, after the week you’ve had? It’s only right!”

“We are not permitted to leave the premises unless on school sanctioned trips,” Illya responded as usual. 

“So you agree this is a prison?”

“That is not what I am saying.” 

“If I don’t get out of here soon I will lose my mind, I don’t know how you’ve stayed sane for so long, or maybe that’s just it, you’re all too far gone!”

“If following the rules is crazy, then I don’t want to be sane.” 

“Boys!” Gaby interrupted their squabble, “Enough of this. Tell me, Napoleon, is Jones going?"

Napoleon grimaced, “Yeah... he’s the one who invited us and set this all up…”

Gaby thought for a moment, possibly the tensest moment of Napoleon’s young life, and finally she spoke, “We are going.” 

“Yes!” Napoleon threw his arms up in victory. Illya rolled his eyes but said nothing further, silently accepting his defeat. 

Three days later, he was sitting in the back of their getaway van, and Napoleon was in the front turning the dial up on the music. Napoleon turned back and grinned at Illya. To his surprise and utter delight a small smile stretched reluctantly across the Russian’s face, and he looked out the window at the grey-green blur of the passing English countryside. 

Napoleon rolled down his window, letting the breeze ruffle the loose curls of his hair, and he shouted, “Freedom!”

The van broke out into a cheer. Among the adventurers, there was Gaby seated next to the aforementioned ‘fit’ Lucy, who was, Napoleon admitted, not half bad to look at. There was also Mathilde, from France. Apart from himself, Jones, and Illya, of the boys there was Rafael from Mexico, and Siddarth (who went by ‘Sid’) from India. The daughters and sons of international diplomats and moguls of various sorts, entirely representative of the general population at Waverley. 

Town was still kilometres away, and their ride was long. Napoleon was just glad to be breathing air that was not from that school, and seeing sites that were decidedly not the insides of the hallways, and hopefully speaking to human beings at the pubs. That said, the human beings in the car were entertaining him just fine for now. 

“Drunkest I have ever been was definitely my high school graduation,” Rafael said, “my girlfriendand I broke into the principal’s office and did…uh… some pretty unspeakable things to his desk.” 

“Ew!” Mathilde shouted and she playfully swatted Rafa in the arm, “drunkest I have ever been was a classy affair… I had two bottles of _merlot_ and then I fell into the Seine!”

The group burst out in laughter. Even Illya was joining in, producing a deep chuckle that Napoleon had never heard before but which entranced him. 

Sid went next, “Okay, y’all are going to make me sound like a stereotype but the drunkest I’ve ever been was at my sister Divya’s wedding. I get so hungry when I’m drunk, I gorged myself on the buffet and ended up spending the rest of the wedding in the bathroom throwing up!” 

“Aren’t Indian weddings like several days long?” Jones asked.

“Yeah man, it was _that_ bad!” 

Lucy went next, and as she spoke everyone’s eyes were on her, transfixed. Except Illya. Napoleon considered that for a moment, but was distracted by Lucy. “Drunkest I’ve ever been was with my cousins at this abandoned castle in Scotland somewhere, we were all just up there smashed out of our minds, playing some game, I can’t even remember, and was hiding in this like crevice in the wall. I was so drunk I didn’t even realize there was a full family of bats in there, and we gave each other such a startle that I was washing bat shit out of my hair for the rest of that trip!”

Between peals of laughter Jones nudged Napoleon, “alright mate, your turn.” 

“Drunkest I’ve ever been? Oof, which time.” 

Napoleon noticed Illya watching him curiously, “Okay, my drunkest was probably when my dad forgot to acknowledge my existence on my sixteenth birthday so I decided whisky was my new dad and I got so drunk I passed out on the subway and woke up in the ass-end of Brooklyn.” 

To any normal group of people, Napoleon decided, that would be a fairly sad story, but the whole car burst into laughter again, because as sad as it was, they had all been there. A rich neglectful father was the common denominator among most students at Waverley, in that respect it was something of a half-way house for troubled teens with trust funds. 

Napoleon of course, did not share in this reality. He had not exactly ‘been there.’ But, he had learned through many years of lying that the best way to do it was to tell a story that was mostly true but with just a few facts tweaked. And so yes, he had slept on the subway before, but not because he was drunk and rebelling against a neglectful father. It had, at one point, been the only warm place he could find to sleep. 

Only Illya didn’t laugh at his story, Napoleon realized, and some part of him hoped Illya had somehow keyed into the fact that behind his smiling and laughter, that story was something that caused him a lot of pain. But it was self-indulgent to think Illya thought so deeply about him, or looked through him that much. He certainly wished he did. 

Sometime in the midst of his reverie and the playful banter, the car came to a halt in the middle of town, right in front of a real brick and mortar English pub. Napoleon felt like he was finally home, his soul felt light at the sight of it. 

As they piled out of the car, Jones gathered them around in front of the entrance. He had a grave expression on his face, or as about as grave as he could get, as he said to the crowd, “Now lads and ladies, I say this to you with the utmost seriousness, you hereby have the right to get sloshed! And we leave no one behind on this journey!”

And so began their pub crawl. 

They entered the first bar, and it was fairly empty. 

“To be fair, it’s only like six pm,” Napoleon said, to no one in particular. He looked around the group, “First round’s on me folks, what are you drinking?” 

As the group found their seats Napoleon sidled up to the bar. Illya had followed him, he realized, delighted. 

“In case you need any help. Carrying the drinks.” 

“Well I’m sure the bar staff can manage that, but thanks for keeping me company,” Napoleon grinned. Illya rolled his eyes. 

“I do not like these English drinks.” 

“I figured, nothing but good vodka for you.”

“Is not my fault Russians make the best drink.”

Napoleon laughed, he actually _giggled_ , he wanted to slap himself. “I don’t know Peril, have you ever had some good old fashioned American moonshine?”

“I have not even heard of that.” 

“Well, it’s made of corn, I think, and it’s so strong it could strip the paint off a car. It’s amazing, it fries your every last brain cell.” 

“Does not sound amazing.” 

“Maybe I’m not pitching it correctly.” 

“Sounds like a drink for a cowboy.”

“I suppose that’s exactly what it is.”

“Hi there, are you two ready to order?” 

Napoleon and Illya both started as the bartender spoke, smiling apologetically at the two of them. 

“I don’t mean to interrupt, it’s just that your friends look a little impatient over there.”

Napoleon and Illya both turned around to see the rest of the gang staring at them. Jones was tapping his watch in mimed anger. Napoleon felt his cheeks begin to burn and Illya was looking resolutely at the floor of the bar. 

But he was quick to recover. Napoleon turned around swiftly, flashing his most charming smile, “We’ll have a round of pints of your house IPA.” 

“Coming right up.” 

Napoleon and Illya walked back to the table and perhaps deliberately from embarrassment, Illya chose to sit as far away from Napoleon as he could, taking the chair next to Sid, leaving Napoleon a seat next to Mathilde. He watched Jones sidle up to Gaby, whispering something in her ear, and he was truly shocked to see Gaby actually laugh at whatever it was. That girl hardly spared most people a second look. There must be something about leaving Waverley, it was making everyone act all kinds of strange. 

For instance, Mathilde, it seemed, had set her eyes on Napoleon. 

“I still want to hear about the drunkest Illya has been,” Napoleon said, shooting a wide smile in his direction. He was met with a curious gaze from Illya, and a quick blooming pink blush. 

“I don’t really have any good story…” 

“Oh that is a shame,” Mathilde interjected. “Napoleon, don’t you want to hear my story? I fell into the Seine!”

“Yeah, you mentioned that in the car,” Rafael reminded. Mathilde shot him a look that could kill. 

“Thank you for reminding me,” she said sweetly, but her smile was full of venom. Rafael looked a little pale after and meekly returned to his conversation with Lucy, electing wisely to back down. But as Mathilde geared up again, Napoleon continued to be saved by the proverbial bell. 

“Hey! Drinks are coming!” Jones shouted excitedly, he was like a child in a candy store. 

Indeed, the first round approached, a tray ringed round with amber glasses. They eagerly grabbed their drinks and then Jones called a toast. 

“To freedom!” 

They cheered, and as nearly the only ones in their bar, their raucousness almost echoed through the wood panelled hollows of the space. Mathilde continued to inch closer to Napoleon, but his eyes were somehow glued on Illya, who was making quiet conversation with Sid. Napoleon felt strangely jealous that Illya’s attention had been divided anywhere else. He quickly ruled this another symptom of his insanity. He sighed and turned to Mathilde, he tuned in briefly to her constant chatter. 

“I have read Baudelaire, darling, but I actually find him quite boring.” 

That answer was evidently displeasing to her but she seemed barely fazed, instead taking a dainty sip of her drink she steered the conversation somehow effortlessly to Proust. Napoleon felt like his brain was going to melt. He appreciated French culture as much as the next guy, but the literature was not necessarily where they got him. Now, get him talking about Degas, or Renoir, and you’d have another story. 

And as if his mind were being read, he distantly heard Illya say, “I think it was impressionists who did those paintings of Medea and Ophelia.”

Napoleon chimed in from across the table, “No! Actually you’re thinking of the Pre-Raphaelites.” 

“What is the difference?”

“Oh my god, Peril, how can you _ask_ that?”

“Does it matter?”

“You’re killing me, you really are.” 

At that, Illya cracked a smile. “So explain then,” and he watched with almost a self-satisfied smirk as Napoleon launched into a full blown _tirade_ about the respective historical eras and influences of the two movements and the differences in technique. 

“And really at the end of the day, the focus for the impressionists was to get out of this idea of painting what Homer and Ovid and Shakespeare were writing about and instead paint the real world around them.” 

“Did the Pre-Raphaelites not also famously depict nature?” 

“Yes but their depictions were much more exacting and impressionism was deliberately not about realism, it was so much more about the feeling behind what the artists were seeing.”

“So it was like their… _impressions_ of what they were seeing,” Sid said suddenly, looking like a lightbulb had just lit up above his head. Napoleon laughed at that. 

“Exactly!”

At that moment Jones tipped the last of his beer into his mouth and slammed the glass down onto the table. 

“Alright lads, the crawl must continue! Next stop… the pub down the road!”

The group moved quickly, digging around in purses and leaving their money on the table, they moved on in a pack to the next pub. The girls walked ahead with Jones who had taken his charge as leader of the pack very seriously, and Rafael and Sid followed closely behind. Bringing up the rear were Illya and Napoleon. 

“Cowboy, how do you know so much about art?”

The question startled a laugh out of Napoleon. “What, you didn’t think I got into Waverley on my good looks alone, did you?”

Illya rolled his eyes, “No, I just meant you don’t seem like nerd.” 

“Hey! I’m not a nerd.”

“About art, you very much are.” 

“I just love it. I spent a lot of time in museums as a kid.” What criminal activity he may have gotten into in those museums, Napoleon chose not to get into. It had been just as much a part of the thrill as the art itself, but that life was behind him now, and it was a life Illya could never know about. He worried he had already revealed too much. 

“Do you ever paint?”

“God no, I wish. I don’t have the talent for it.”

“Have you ever tried?” 

“I sketch a little, but no I never got around to actually putting brush to canvas, so to speak.” 

“So how do you know then?”

“I… guess I don’t.” Napoleon felt a little flustered. He had never had the time, between running from the cops, evading capture, and never attending school for regular enough periods at a time. Come to think of it, he’d never had the resources. Napoleon was not sure for a minute that he had really ever seen a blank canvas and easel in real life, paint still in its plump little tubes. 

“There is studio art class at Waverley, why don’t you switch into it?”

“Aw, you’re sick of me already?”

Illya smiled, “It’s not that. I just think you should follow passion.”

Napoleon smiled, a little ruefully, “You make a compelling case, Peril.” 

Then they entered the second bar, and Napoleon made a point not to leave Illya’s side. And they stuck together until he third bar as well, and it was maybe a mixture of Illya opening up to him or getting used to him, with the help of the alcohol and change of scenery, but Napoleon found he was able to draw out even more of those deep, charming chuckles from Illya, those broad and enchanting smiles. Napoleon knew he was dealing recklessly with his heart, but he just absolutely could not help it. 

“So what if the first people in orbit were Russian, the first men on the moon were American.” 

“Oh of course the _moon landing_ , your big moment. As if your space agency has done anything worth talking about since.”

“Well what have _you_ done?” 

“Plenty of things. We just don’t have to be ostentatious about it.” 

“As if!”

Illya rolled his eyes and got up in mock anger. Napoleon only knew it was mock anger because of the way the corners of Illya’s mouth were ticked upwards and the sparkle in his eyes as he looked back at him. He walked to the bathrooms without another word. 

“Alright! Next pub, team!” Jones announced then.

“Oh wait, Illya just headed to the restroom.” 

Gaby chimed in then, “Napoleon why don’t you go ahead with the pack, Jones and I can wait for him.”

Napoleon was confused for a moment, then he looked at Gaby and Jones, their arms were pressed against each other, side by side on the table, and Gaby was giving him a funny look. In a moment of stunning sobriety, Napoleon stood, and decided to be a good wingman. 

“Sure. Sure, yeah no problem.” He gestured to the rest of the team, “Alright, Sid, Raf, Luce, and Mathilde… Onwards!”

The group dutifully followed after Napoleon who charged through the cobblestoned streets until they came upon their next, and final destination. Lucy spotted her cousin and the boyfriend who had been their ticket to freedom and ran up to meet them, the rest of them filtered in behind her. All except Mathilde. 

“Napoleon,” she purred, moving into his space until he was backed up against the wall. “Would you like to smoke?” And she pulled out a little cigarette, and brandished it in Napoleon’s face. 

“Uh, I’m okay, I think I’m just going to join the others…”

Mathilde pouted, “You have been avoiding me tonight.”

“No! Mathilde it’s not that…” 

But before Napoleon could continue, Mathilde was pressing him against the brick wall beside the entrance of the pub. Giggling, she twisted a finger in her long black hair, tilting her head to the side she looked flirtatiously into Napoleon’s eyes. 

“Good, I don’t like it when you don’t pay me attention.” 

Napoleon laughed nervously. Under normal circumstances, he would have been on cloud nine. A beautiful girl in a secret place on a beautiful night, his body buoyant with booze. For some reason, it all felt fundamentally wrong. There was only the image of pale blue eyes and straw blonde hair, a severe posture and a severer gaze, flashing in his head. Gingerly he tried to extricate himself from Mathilde’s embrace. 

“ _Ma chérie,_ I think you’re drunk.”

“Oh, _chérie_ , _il parle français!_ How do you Americans say it? That’s hot,” she giggled, even more impressed. Sometimes Napoleon felt like his charm was a curse, this was one of those moments. He just couldn’t turn it off!

He smiled at her nervously, but she took it as an invitation and surged up on her tiptoes to press her lips against his. His eyes still open, it was in that moment that he saw Illya round the corner, and his gaze fell right upon them, locked in this incredibly compromising position. He looked away quickly, and turned to leave. 

That’s when Napoleon, as gently as he could moved away from Mathilde, kissing her on the cheek he said, “thank you my dear, but not tonight. Go back inside.”

He chased after Illya, rounding the corner he saw the Russian walking away. So he called out to him. 

“Illya! Wait!”

He turned around, surprised to see Napoleon following him. He walked up to meet Napoleon, hands in his pockets. Napoleon watched him, illuminated by moonlight, and he took a breath. 

“That was not— I mean, Mathilde and I aren’t—”

“Oh,” Illya said, simply. “Why not?” 

“She’s not… the person,” Napoleon said, looking away. 

He realized too late how suggestive his words sounded, how meaningful they sounded at this hour. Alcohol made his tongue loose. He was trying to avoid complicating his relationship with Illya, but the look in his eyes when he caught Napoleon kissing Mathilde— it was something else. It made Napoleon feel like his stomach had dropped out of him. Though he was a master at schooling his expression, for a split second Napoleon could have sworn he saw Illya look disappointed, and maybe, in his most hare-brained conspiracies, a little heartbroken. 

“I see,” was all Illya said. 

“Do you want to go join the rest of the group?”

“No,” Illya said, “if that’s alright, I would like to go on a walk, get some fresh air.”

“Okay,” Napoleon felt disappointed but tried not to look any particular way, but he felt Illya’s eyes on him, like he was being analyzed. 

“You could join me.”

A moonlit walk along the cobblestones with no one in the world but him and Illya. It was so romantic it made Napoleon’s heart feel like it ballooned twelve sizes. What could he do? He was weak, a slave to his heart, he nodded and followed along helplessly as Illya led the way. 

Side by side, they did not ever touch, but their nearness was enough for Napoleon to feel as light as air. They talked softly, so as not to disturb the sleeping town around them. They laughed, and Napoleon felt his heart slipping away from him each time he saw a flash of Illya’s smile. He had, perhaps, fatally underestimated his interest in Illya. But now was not the time to worry about that. 

Foolishly, he believed it could all still be undone. 


	6. Chapter 6

Napoleon stared at the blank canvas, an expansive stretch of white. It looked back at him, almost expectant. He stared, frustrated. He had nothing to give. 

After his first studio art class, Napoleon felt entirely and completely out of his comfort zone. Learning the basics had been instructive, but then all the elements that went into painting, the design, the colour, the shape, the technique, all of which he understood so well in the works of others, seemed overwhelming in his own unskilled hands.

He supposed all he needed was practice, which was why, long after everyone had gone to bed, he had come up to the studio. But all he found here was an impasse between him and this damned canvas. 

Paint was dripping off of the brush he held in his hand, but there was something stopping him from touching the canvas. He sighed. He would give up for the day. 

“I just can’t do it, I’m awful.”

“You have had _one_ class, Cowboy.”

“I know but it was enough to condemn my fate.” 

“You are being dramatic.”

“Maybe I was meant for the theatre then, not fine art!”

“What is exactly the problem?”

“I don't even know where to start, I don't know what to paint!”

"Don't they make you start with apple and bananas?"

“Still life is an art form yes, that I respect, but I want something slightly more interesting to work on, to be my project.”

An idea seemed to strike Illya in that moment, “Paint me.”

Napoleon spluttered, “You?”

“Why not?”

“A six foot five Russian muse,” Napoleon said, incredulous. 

“What is so wrong about that?”

“Nothing, I guess.”

“So then it is settled.”

“I feel like it would be a shame to paint you, Peril.”

“Why?” He sounded almost offended.

“You’re far too statuesque, I don’t know that anything less than sculpture would do you justice.”

It was Illya’s turn to splutter, turning a curious shade of pink, “What do you mean by that?”

“I’ll show you,” Napoleon turned to run into his room, and going inside, he carefully picked a book out of his suitcase. 

“Here,” he said, walking back up to Illya and placing the book in his hand, open to a picture of a Roman marble statue. 

“This is Antinoous. The Roman emperor Hadrian loved him and when he died mysteriously, the emperor was distraught. He made Antinoous a god and commissioned these statues of him far and wide in the empire.”

Illya looked at the statues for a long time, flipping through the pages and the different examples. He handed the book back to Napoleon, a curious look on his face. “They are beautiful.” 

Napoleon smiled, looking down at the book.

“Is that what you think of me?” Napoleon felt his heart skip a beat, his pulse was thundering suddenly in his throat. 

“I— well, I—” he was suddenly at a loss for words. Illya smirked at him. 

“Of course I think you’re beautiful, Illya.” Napoleon said, finally, and the smile suddenly dropped from Illya’s face. 

“You shouldn’t say that.” 

Napoleon knew he was right, yet he asked, “Why?”

“You will give people wrong idea.” 

“What idea?” 

Illya looked at him for a moment, frustrated, "Never mind.”

Napoleon levelled his gaze, and in a moment felt reckless. _What idea_ , he had asked, and perhaps he was asking himself this question too. In every moment spent with Illya, Napoleon was aware that he was digging himself deeper and deeper into a hole that he had no way out of.He couldn’t leave Illya’s side— that was his job, but the longer he spent there the more his heart beat and craved Illya in a way that he could not possibly allow. 

He would sit in sessions with Waverley with this secret heavy in his heart. 

“And I trust you had fun on your little outing this weekend?” 

“How did you know about that?”

“I think by now you’d know there’s no use in asking me that question.”

“I guess not.” 

“The halls have eyes, Mr. Solo.” 

“I guess I’m supposed to be a pair myself."

“Indeed. So, as much of a risk it was that you took Kuryakin into town, I am glad that you brought him back in one piece. I just would not advise it again. Is that clear?”

“Crystal.”

“Alright, you are dismissed."

Napoleon was trying to take his frustration out on his art. Illya was not proving helpful. Gaby was delighted to watch their joint struggle. 

“I will not strip for you,” Illya’s face was beet red and there was practically steam coming out of his ears. Napoleon and Gaby were on the floor, shaking from their laughter. 

“Peril, it was you who wanted to be my muse!” Napoleon said, catching his breath. 

“Maybe I no longer want.”

“Alright, alright,” Napoleon said, holding his hands up in surrender, “you will be my six foot five, fully clothed, Russian muse.” 

Illya huffed but it seemed to placate him.

“Are you sure you don’t want a drink, Illya?” Gaby said, pouring herself another generous glass of the French wine Napoleon had smuggled in to Waverley.

“I am sure.” 

Gaby shrugged, “More for me then!” The three of them were in the art studio, late after hours. Illya had made a gentleman’s agreement for himself and Napoleon with the monitor on their floor, pleaded the case that this was homework, and Gaby was mostly left alone to do as she wished. Cheeks flushed with wine, Gaby happily watched Napoleon at work. He was glad for the buffer between himself and Illya, at this hour, the tenseness between them might kill him. 

“So are you ever going to tell us what happened with Jones?” Napoleon said, his attention turned to priming his canvas. 

Gaby sputtered suddenly, coughing on her wine. Illya went over to go pat her gently on the back in concern. “I’m fine. And um, nothing happened with Jones. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I just thought you were getting pretty cozy at the bar.”

“Like you and Mathilde were?”

Illya looked knowingly at Napoleon then. Napoleon smirked, “Yes, like me and Mathilde. Do you like him?” 

Gaby rolled her eyes and gritted her teeth, like it pained her to talk about her emotions. 

“He’s sweet. I don’t know. He’s not my type.”

“Who is?”

“Well, men like Illya if he weren’t—” Gaby cut herself off then, slapping a hand across her mouth. Illya looked at her, but his expression was inscrutable. 

“If he weren’t what?” Napoleon asked. 

“Like a brother to me,” Gaby blurted. 

Illya sighed and looked at Napoleon then. “She means if I weren’t gay.” 

The room stilled for a second, a tense silence descending over all of them. Napoleon smiled then, “You can have me, then, if you’re interested Gaby, I’m bi.”

Illya looked at Napoleon then, returning a small and tentative smile. Gaby giggled, relieved, and she walked up to Napoleon, wrapping her arms around him and giving him a kiss on the cheek. 

“As if I wouldn’t marry you for the amount of booze you have alone.” 

“Ah yes, what a strong foundation to base a marriage on.”

“Don’t be jealous, Peril. Just because you weren’t made to be with the beautiful Miss Teller doesn’t mean that none of us can!” 

Gaby and Napoleon giggled but then they suddenly found themselves doused in bright yellow paint. Sputtering and spitting the paint out of their mouths and wiping it from their eyes, they turned to see Illya giggling, the offending empty paint can dripping from his hands. 

“Two can play at that game, Pollock.” 

Napoleon picked up the nearest can of paint, which happened to be blue, and swung at his Russian muse. Though he ducked the paint still dripped into his hair and onto his face, and he dashed to pick up another missile. Gaby joined in and threw handfuls of white primer onto Napoleon and Illya, and they ran around the studio giggling and screaming until Napoleon tackled them both and they fell in a pile on the floor below, stained head to foot in paint, and tangled in the tarps Napoleon had set down in some semblance of responsibility. 

“Peril,” Napoleon said, gasping for breath, “you were supposed to encourage my art, not get me banned from the studio.” 

“We will clean up. You will be fine.”

“Maybe your true calling is performance art,” Gaby said sourly unsticking her bangs from her forehead. 

“Revealing the dark truths of society with provocative imagery and action? That sounds like me.” 

“Making a fool of yourself for attention? It really does sound like you. Gaby, you may be on to something here.”

Napoleon scooped up a handful of paint from the ground then, “Don’t make me start this again.”

Illya levelled his gaze, “Try me, Solo.” 

Gaby stood up then, “If you boys keep fighting, be my guest, I will be washing this crap off of myself now.” 

After Gaby left, Napoleon and Illya stayed sitting on the floor, talking and laughing a little. When their conversation died down, Illya got up and dutifully started cleaning up the tarps on the floor, bringing them to the sink and Napoleon got up to help him wiping down the walls and surfaces their fight had affected. There were a lot of them, so by the time they were done, the paint on their skin and hair was dry and cracking and uncomfortable. 

“I need a shower,” Napoleon stated the obvious. Illya rolled his eyes and they walked to their floor together. Grabbing towels from their rooms they went into the bathroom. Napoleon barely realized what was happening before his eyes landed on Illya peeling off his shirt. Suddenly, his gaze was trapped, roaming along the wide expanse of pale skin and the surprisingly defined muscle. Here and there Napoleon saw freckles, and some scars. His fingers twitched as he held himself back from reaching out and touching. Illya noticed his gaze and turned to him, clad only in his underwear. 

Napoleon felt heat rise in his face, but not one to be cowed, he began to strip then as well. He felt Illya’s eyes on him as he did so and so he was careful to stretch and preen and show off the defined muscle in his shoulders and his back. When he looked back, Illya quickly diverted his gaze, and Napoleon smirked, but the air felt too tense to talk or crack a joke. 

He slid a finger along the elastic of his briefs, and he watched Illya’s eyes follow the movement. His breath felt caught in his chest as he stretched the waistband out and began pulling the briefs down his legs. When he looked back up Illya was already in the shower stall, the water running loudly and churning up steam, his own boxers discarded with the rest of his clothes seemingly at the speed of light. 

Napoleon turned and went into his own stall, feeling the heat of the water on his body did nothing to calm his nerves or the blood rushing through his body. He carefully scrubbed the paint off of his skin and lathered his hair with shampoo. At one point he just lost himself in the sensation of it all and by the time he got out of the shower, wrapping the towel carefully around his waist, Illya and all his belongings were long gone. 

Beyond that tense moment, months of the school year seemed to fly by with few more incidences. Napoleon continued to be bewildered by math, but he got better, slowly, at painting. He still customarily lied to Illya about “soccer practice” to report to Waverley, and every day that he laughed with Illya into the early hours of the morning during monitoring shifts, or that Illya posed for his painting, or that Illya laughed with him and Gaby, Napoleon felt himself nearing closer and closer to a cliff’s edge, which, having fallen off, he could never get back up again. 

And yet he inched closer. 


	7. Chapter 7

Napoleon sidled up to Illya that night at dinner. “So you’re not going home for Christmas, either?” 

“No,” Illya said simply. Napoleon knew he wouldn't elaborate further. 

So he was surprised when Illya asked him, “You are not going on vacation?” 

Most Waverley kids did not have parents who cared enough to have them home for Christmas, but they would fund elaborate tropical vacations for their kids over the winter break. The severity with which Illya's father ran his enterprise and his Soviet sensibilities explained why this was not the case for Illya. He, Napoleon and perhaps a few other kids would be the only ones left here for the next few weeks. 

Napoleon’s excuse was practiced and it easily rolled off his tongue, “Ah unfortunately daddy dearest has frozen my assets this Christmas. It’s because of the trouble I got into at my last school. He won't parent me but he’ll discipline me.” 

Illya looked at him, again with that curious gaze that made Napoleon feel like he was being seen through completely. 

“What did you do that was so bad?”

Napoleon laughed nervously, “It’s a long story.”

“I have time, like you said, I am not going anywhere.” 

“Okay,” Napoleon sighed, tongue twisting in his mouth as he thought of the best ratio of truth and fiction to tell in this story. “I think the Vinciguerra episode may have clued you into some of my kleptomaniac tendencies.”

Illya laughed at that, “It certainly did.”

Napoleon grinned somewhat ruefully, “Well it was those very tendencies that led me to steal a bunch of priceless art from my former headmaster’s private home collection.”

Illya rolled his eyes, “How did you get caught? Selling them?”

“Well no, see I was a bit naive and idealistic in those days, and maybe I still am, but I wanted to donate them to museums.”

“How noble of you,” Illya said dryly. 

“Listen, I firmly believe art should be available for everyone to see!"

"I agree with you.”

“A lot of good it did me when the Met ratted me out.” 

“I’m sure they sensed some greater profit for themselves with you brought to justice. Besides, it was not like you were really punished. Rich kids hardly ever are.” 

_If only you knew_ , Napoleon thought. But he said, "I guess you’re right. Technically this is my punishment."

“It's not so bad,” Illya smiled at him, a little mischievously. 

“I guess not,” Napoleon said, even though his heart felt like it was going to give out at any moment under the overwhelming feeling of Illya's smile. He was so monumentally screwed, he thought, staring into his dinner.

After they had finished eating, Napoleon and Illya found themselves sitting together in the dining hall, it had nearly emptied out as the school had for the winter break and thus it became a nice spot to sit and study for the exams that were just around the corner when they all came back. Studying was what Napoleon was _trying_ to do anyway, but the fluttering of his heart was distracting him. He decided to do something about it. 

“Hey,” Napoleon said suddenly, Illya looked up at him, his expression was open, inquisitive. Napoleon took a breath, “could you help me study for this geometry final tonight, I’m just kind of freaking out because we didn’t cover this stuff at my old school and I—”

“Yes,” Illya said simply, cutting him off.

“Okay cool. Meet in the library?”

“Okay,” Illya was looking down at his book now, apparently distracted. Napoleon bit his lip, suddenly feeling jittery and panicked. 

“I can invite Gaby too, maybe, if she’s still around for tonight.”

“Why? She’s not in the class.” Illya was looking up at him now. 

“Oh. I mean, I just thought if we wanted to hang out.”

“Are we studying or hanging out?”

“Well, a bit of both, I guess.”

Illya seemed puzzled, but then he said, “I think it is easier if just you and me, no distraction.”

Napoleon felt his mouth go dry, “sounds great,” he managed, before gathering his books and getting up. Illya looked at him as he started to leave. “I’ve got to head to soccer—uh, football practice,” he seemed to have to explain himself. Illya smiled at him fumbling his words, still unused to giving up his Americanisms. Napoleon’s head felt light, and his skin tingled until he was all the way out of Illya’s presence. 

“Stupid,” he muttered to himself. And he felt his anxiety clawing at his brain. 

This was a mission, he was losing objectivity. There had been something about Illya, from the moment he saw him, enraged, walking down his hallway. Something that was irresistible to Napoleon. Getting to know him had made that magnetic pull stronger still. How charming he was, how sweet and thoughtful, it was never something Napoleon had expected. This was when his teenage heart betrayed him. 

His meeting with Waverley that night was torturous. He mechanically went through his report on Illya throughout the past few weeks, his observations were keenly heard by Waverley, especially in light of Vinciguerra’s removal. 

“Yeah, so in conclusion, Illya’s doing great, I don’t really have anything else to report.” 

“Well that is good to hear.”

“Can I go?”

“In a minute. I have just another question for you.”

“Shoot.” 

“What are, precisely, your feelings about Mr. Kuryakin.”

Napoleon spluttered, “Uh-wha— feelings?”

“Yes, what do you feel towards him?”

Napoleon felt like he was short-circuiting. “He’s becoming a good friend,” he finally managed. 

“A friend, is that all?”

“Yes, Mr. Waverley.”

“You know, Mr. Solo, when Adrian recommended you for this job I was a little worried. I fear the repercussions of the inevitable demise of your friendship with Kuryakin. It’s unfortunate how feelings must be sacrificed for safety, but it is important to me that you are clear with me as to what degree this sacrifice will cause damage.”

“I understand, sir.”

“We have a subject who is emotionally volatile and I know this was explained to you, so I will dismiss you now with just the advice to be careful.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Finally, evening rolled around. Napoleon walked into the library feeling like he would be walking into something that there would be no easy way out of. Waverley’s words echoed in his mind, _inevitable_ demise, _be careful._ His emotions churned in his chest as he walked. He spotted Illya at a table in the far corner and took a seat next to him, feigning a level of casualness he was not sure how he managed with how hard his heart was beating. 

“So, Euclid.”

Illya smiled down at his book. Napoleon was sure he could hear how loudly his heart was beating, he didn’t know how to stop it. Mercifully, they talked only about math for the next few hours. Illya’s dogged determination when it came to studying was something that Napoleon was suddenly incredibly thankful for. 

But eventually the conversation lulled. Eventually they were tired, their brains having computed all the math they could. Napoleon sighed and buried his head in his arms, slumping over the table. He had scooted forwards in his chair, and with his legs sprawled out, his knee bumped into Illya’s thigh. He let it stay there, pressing into him. The point of contact buzzed with electricity, and Napoleon greedily felt every sensation that each small touch of Illya’s could lend him. 

Napoleon quickly grew tired of the silence, and glanced up at Illya who was looking at him strangely, fondly, Napoleon might hazard to say. “What?” he asked softly. 

A strange pink blush coloured Illya’s cheeks. It made him look even more angelic than before, if that was even possible. “Nothing,” he muttered back, not looking away. 

Napoleon held his gaze, helplessly like he was magnetically charged, and he lifted himself on his elbows. Scooting his chair forward even further he leaned across the table. “No, seriously.”

“What?”

“What are you thinking about?”

“Maths.”

“Illya, come on.”

“You?”

“Me?”

“I am always thinking about you.”

Illya looked at him for a long moment. The pink blush deepened on his cheek. Napoleon stared back, transfixed once again, but this time perhaps also by the shock of Illya’s admission. He found himself smiling, not in a flirtatious way, but rather completely organic, flattered, surprised, delighted. Illya smiled back, more cautious. 

Suddenly, he leaned closer and Napoleon held his breath. Illya moved forward another inch, and he touched their foreheads together. Napoleon felt his eyes slip closed, and this time he moved forwards an inch, tipping his head to the side, finally he touched their lips together just once. It was a quick, chaste kiss, but it felt like ten thousand fireworks were launching beneath Napoleon’s skin, his whole body thrumming with energy. 

His nervousness had not abated, however, as he waited for Illya to respond. When he opened his eyes he saw that Illya’s were still closed. He took a breath, not knowing whether to speak, or if it would break the moment. He didn’t have to as suddenly Illya’s hand came up to grasp the side of Napoleon’s face, and he kissed Napoleon again. This time, he tilted his head to kiss him deeper, opening his mouth, his tongue darted out and grazed Napoleon’s bottom lip. At this, Napoleon let out an entirely involuntary whimper which made Illya grin as he pressed their lips together, they were smiling too much to kiss properly. 

“Stop laughing at me,” Napoleon said between giggles. He pressed his lips against Illya’s jaw. 

“I am not,” Illya whispered, barely stifling his own laughter. He pulled away suddenly and Napoleon almost whined, feeling the cold air rush back in Illya’s absence. “Let’s go somewhere else,” Illya said dutifully, beginning to gather his books. Napoleon just stared at him, still too dazed from the kiss to speak or respond in any kind of intelligent way. 

“Let’s go somewhere else?” 

“Librarian is watching us, giving us evil eye.” 

Napoleon turned around, but no one was there. The librarian wasn’t even on the same floor as them. “No she’s not.”

“You would rather do this over Euclid? This is comfortable for you?”

“Well,” Napoleon asked, perhaps against his better judgement, “what is this?”

Illya blushed, “I don’t know.”

Napoleon hesitated for a minute. He shouldn’t be doing this, whatever it was, whenever they figured it out. This was crossing a boundary. For gods’ sake he had _just_ informed on this boy to Waverley earlier today, this would be taking advantage of Illya, and he couldn’t do that. But he also couldn’t just tell him in the middle of the library. 

“Let’s talk about it in my room,” Napoleon said, finally. Illya looked up at him and nodded. They both hurriedly put their books away in their bags and made their way out of the library. They walked through the halls in silence, with Illya sending sidelong glances Napoleon’s way, and Napoleon returning them. 

When they walked through hallways no one else was in, Napoleon let his fingers brush Illya’s, and took advantage of every ounce of voltage that sent running through his skin. Each time that happened, Napoleon felt his determination to tell Illya the truth fade. Their friendship was so new, so delicate, and whatever this was now was even more tenuous. 

Napoleon opened the door to his room with shaky fingers, hyperaware of Illya’s warm, overwhelming presence behind him. They piled into the room, Illya pushing Napoleon back onto his bed and carefully shutting the door behind him. Illya climbed over top of him, enveloping Napoleon’s body in his expanse of limbs and muscle and warmth. All other thoughts vanished from his head. Napoleon wasted no time and pressed his lips to every accessible inch of Illya’s neck, causing delightful hitches and gasps to pepper Illya’s breath. 

For his part Illya’s hands roamed across Napoleon’s body and his lips found Napoleon’s, eventually sinking into a deep kiss. Napoleon did not know how long they had been kissing before they necessarily came up for air. Panting, Napoleon looked into Illya’s intense gaze, the ice-blue of his eyes were relegated to a thin ring as his pupils were blown wide with desire, with pleasure. Napoleon could imagine his were the same. 

“Wow,” Napoleon breathed. He immediately felt stupid for saying it, but Illya smiled and that made it a little better. 

Illya chuckled then, out of breath. “Wow?”

Napoleon laughed at himself as well, he felt drunk, just from Illya’s mouth, his presence. He had no words to say and so he leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to Illya’s mouth. When he pulled back, Illya’s eyes were closed, smiling, and a beautiful pink blush coloured his cheeks.

“I am glad you kissed me, Cowboy.”

He spoke so softly, Napoleon grinned. “Me too.”

“It took me a while to catch on,” Illya murmured, settling down beside Napoleon in his bed, his arms curling around him and his head resting in the crook of Napoleon’s neck. “And you were being so obvious,” he murmured, his voice tapering off at the end into a sigh. 

Napoleon laughed, but he realized Illya might be falling asleep. Briefly his brain considered that that wouldn’t be a great idea, but then again, he felt so relaxed, so comfortable, so safe. Sleep made his eyelids suddenly heavy. He lifted a hand to stroke through Illya’s hair, causing him to hum contentedly and bury his face deeper into Napoleon’s neck. Napoleon smiled, falling into a deep, comfortable sleep. The best sleep he had had in a while. 

He woke up to sunlight streaming into his eyes. As he raised a hand to shield them, he brushed up against Illya’s bicep which was curled around his chest along with the rest of the Russian. His face was nestled right next to Napoleon’s neck, and his soft breath— still asleep— tickled the sensitive skin in a surprisingly pleasant way. 

As much as he enjoyed this feeling, the heavy comfortable weight around him, Napoleon was also a little horrified. It really wasn’t supposed to go this far. That familiar spike of anxiety curled around his chest in tight tendrils. The way it felt to kiss Illya was something Napoleon had never felt before. It was the most abject, pure pleasure he had ever felt in his life. 

Illya was now really a problem. He always had been a problem for Napoleon, since the moment he set eyes on him. But now it was like a dam had burst. There was only a time before kissing Illya and a time after, and Napoleon never wanted to go back to the time before. At the same time he was aware he was essentially lying to Illya about everything, about who he was, about why he was here, and there was no way he could tell him the truth. There was absolutely no way this could end well. 

In the moment, pinned down, Napoleon could see no way to extricate himself from Illya’s embrace. Part of him never wanted to escape at all. He did everything to push that feeling away, but it was resilient. Napoleon sighed, defeated. He knew the slightest movement would wake the sleeping giant so perhaps it was worth it to just go ahead and wake him. He would have to confront him at some point. 

He stretched just the slightest bit, and immediately Illya stirred. Except, he didn’t do what Napoleon expected— which was bolt upright in surprise or horror or regret—rather, he buried his face deeper into the side of Napoleon’s neck, stretching his back like a cat, he cuddled closer. 

“Goodmorning,” he grumbled into Napoleon’s skin. The vibrations of his voice, rough with sleep, and the beginnings of his stubble scratching the tender skin of his neck all worked together to make Napoleon shiver. He took in a sharp, quick breath, feeling a hot jolt of arousal in the pit of his stomach. 

“Morning,” he said, a little breathless.

Then Illya began to kiss up Napoleon’s neck, reaching the underside of his jaw, he sucked at the sensitive skin, biting a little, certainly leaving a mark. In a terribly inconvenient place at that, Napoleon thought somehow through his haze. He would have to get Illya back for that. But that would have to wait. For now, Napoleon was a wreck. At every touch, every prickly kiss, drew a different noise he didn’t know he was capable of making, and which delighted Illya to no end. He whined, he gasped, he whimpered. His body felt like it was fire, pinpricks all under his skin. 

He turned his face and Illya captured his lips once again, and they kissed, heated, Napoleon somehow found himself rolling on top of Illya, they were both still in their uniforms, far too many clothes. Illya tugged at Napoleon’s sweater until he took it off, his shirt followed. Illya’s fingers felt like forest fires trailing across his bare skin and he drew Napoleon close, kissing along his shoulder and collar bones. 

Napoleon was completely lost in the sensation, and barely noticed when Illya disposed of his own sweater, he ran his fingers along the stiff fabric of Illya’s shirt, absentmindedly fumbling with the buttons. His fingers stilled when Illya kissed him again and his mouth opened under him, hot and inviting. He devoted all his attention to this feeling, and it anchored him to the earth in a way that he felt he could never let go. If he did, he was convinced he would be lost, adrift in space, untethered. 

Illya pulled away then, panting to catch his breath, Napoleon was in the same state. All at once, he felt the cold air on his bare skin and the chill crept out from inside him. He realized he needed to end this immediately before it went too far. Perhaps it already had. He rolled himself off of Illya, which made the other boy whine at his absence. He scooted up the bed, and leaning on the headboard, caught his breath. He looked up at the ceiling, the pile of his clothes on the floor, the pile of homework unfinished on his desk, and he didn’t dare look at Illya. 

Rather, Napoleon felt him shift closer in concern. 

“What’s wrong?”

The innocence of the question, and the open, trusting look on Illya’s face broke Napoleon’s heart. The guilt of everything pressed heavy against his throat. 

Yet he lied smoothly, “Nothing’s wrong. Just getting a bit intense.” 

Illya’s brow furrowed with concern and he came closer to sit next to Napoleon. The same magnetic pull drew Napoleon, helpless, to rest his head against Illya’s shoulder. Illya looped his arm around Napoleon, his hand coming up to play with the loose curls at the nape of his neck. 

“We can go as slowly as you need to,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to Napoleon’s temple. 

“Thanks,” Napoleon said, a little listlessly. He took a breath, “It’s also just that I don’t know if we should do this.”

Illya’s hand which had just been carding through Napoleon’s hair froze, and the rest of him stiffened. “Oh.” 

He moved his arm from behind Napoleon’s back and Napoleon immediately felt its absence. 

“No, Illya, I like you a lot—” Illya looked at him, almost as if he was surprised by this, “I mean obviously I do.” 

“Then what do you mean?”

“I’ve never done this before.” 

“Really?” 

Napoleon huffed, “I mean, I have, just not with someone I’ve liked this much.” 

His voice petered off at the end, he was surprised at his own honesty. He was also frustrated at himself, at his weakness. Napoleon was nowhere near what he was meant to be doing— ending this. He couldn’t bear the slightest hurt look on Illya’s face, like it actually pained him to see it. Oh god, what had he gotten himself into? 

“What is problem then?”

“I’ll be bad at this. I’ll hurt you.”

“I think I will be okay.”

He wanted to so desperately tell Illya the truth just then. Ruin this whole thing, ruin any chance he ever had. He deserved as much. But Napoleon kept his mouth shut. His selfish desire to hoard his time with Illya only grew stronger since he knew it had to have an end at some point. That point was much sooner than he would like. Napoleon felt sick.

“I just don’t want to do something that we might regret. I don’t want you to come to resent me because of the way I am.” Napoleon finally, quietly, admitted. 

Illya was silent for a long time. He looked like he was thinking. 

“What is it that we are doing?”

“I don’t know.”

Illya huffed, a little frustrated. Napoleon looked at him helplessly. 

“I will tell you what I want. I want you. To be with you, and whatever you want to call it— boyfriend, whatever— I do not care about your luggage or whatever it is about you that you think I cannot handle. I just care about you.” 

Napoleon felt like the air had just been taken out of his lungs. His heart ached at Illya’s words. There was no way he could physically make himself tell Illya the truth after that. That it would be impossible for Illya to get to know him. That Illya probably wouldn’t like who he would find anyway. That this was a terrible idea.

All these thoughts stuck in his throat and instead he just whispered, “okay.”

Illya smiled then, and kissed his temple once more. “Also it’s baggage, not luggage.”

At that Illya swatted his head playfully. They laughed. Then Illya tipped his chin towards him and captured his lips in another kiss. It was slow and carefree and made Napoleon feel relaxed, like a slow spill of lava was trailing beneath his skin. 

Suddenly Napoleon stopped. Pulling away, he took a breath, gazing at Illya cautiously, “Would it be okay if we didn’t tell anyone right away? While we figure everything out?”

“Of course. Except Gaby, yes?” 

“Including Gaby.”

“Gaby won’t care, she will be happy for us.” 

“I just think it would be better if we kept it between us for now.” 

Illya looked a little defeated. “Okay.” 

The air was still and awkward now. Napoleon’s chest and throat felt tight with anxiety. Illya took a deep breath, his eyes cast around the room for his sweater. Wordlessly he got up, climbing awkwardly off of Napoleon’s bed he picked it up. Holding it in his hand and his backpack in the other he paused at the foot of the bed. Napoleon was still sitting up by the headboard, shirtless, feeling a little shellshocked by how strangely this interaction had gone. 

Illya moved to leave. Napoleon let him. Things had taken a strange turn, and he wasn’t sure where he and Illya stood. He knew his situation had just gotten a million times more complicated, but even if he could undo everything that had just happened— he wouldn’t. 


	8. Chapter 8

Napoleon and Illya had spent the rest of the Christmas break on more or less good terms. Although that first morning had been a little frosty, the days and nights after they got to know each other better by the fireplaces in the old castle, and they sat in companionable silence, or slept curled up into one another every chance they got. It was serene. 

But the first morning that everyone came back after the break, Napoleon walked into a dining hall that was suddenly was buzzing with excited energy. 

He deliberately took a seat next to Jones and he could feel Illya’s eyes on him from across the room. He was sitting with Gaby, Napoleon deliberately did not turn to look at them. 

“Are you taking Mathilde to the ball, Solo?” Jones asked him with no preamble.

“Sorry what? What ball?”

“The annual spring ball! It’s a tradition at Waverley, to celebrate the graduating class, otherwise known as _us!_ ” 

“Uh, no I don’t think I’ll go with Mathilde.”

“Why not? Didn’t you guys kiss at the bar?”

“We did but it’s not like that, we’re not together.” 

“Ah so you’re one of those American “hit it and quit it” types, then.” 

“Jones, can you do me a favour and just shut up for once in your life?”

“Yeesh, you’re a grump this morning.” 

“I just don’t want to talk about Mathilde, okay?” 

“But you’re still going to the ball, right?” 

“Yes, I’ll probably go.” 

“I think I’ll ask Gaby,” 

“You think she’ll say yes?” 

Jones glanced back over to Gaby and Illya’s table, “I think I have a pretty good shot.” 

When Napoleon glanced back, he saw Gaby raking a fork through her eggs, distracted and nonplussed. Instead, it was Illya who was glancing over at Napoleon, his cheeks pink, who looked away quickly when Napoleon caught his eye. Napoleon smiled broadly and slowly and his heart felt like it expanded three sizes. 

That night, Napoleon came out to meet Illya during his monitoring shift but was surprised to see Gaby already there, pacing. When she saw him she looked relieved. 

“Thank god you’re finally here!”

“Illya, why aren’t _you_ always this happy to see me?”

Illya rolled his eyes, “Gaby wants you to do another crime.” 

“Even better!” Napoleon’s grin widened, “who’s our target?” 

“It’s Lucy and those other cows planning the ball.” 

“Come again?”

“I tell her she is crazy,” Illya said. 

“What did Lucy do?”

“Nothing. Yet.”

“And so what do you propose _we_ do?” 

“I heard she’s mad that Jones asked me to the ball.”

“Did he?”

“Yes.” 

“Did you say yes?” 

“Yes. But that’s besides the point.”

“What is she going to do?”

“I heard she rigged up a device to spill a tub full of beer onto him during the ball.”

“And you want us to _stop_ that?”

“Napoleon, look, I don’t know if it’s true. I just want to make sure it isn’t.”

“If it is, what do you propose we do? Dismantle it?” Illya chimed in.

“Of course not,” Gaby snapped, “just rig it so the release mechanism gets stuck the day of.”

“How would they get all that beer up there anyway?”

“I don’t know, Lucy’s cousin?”

“It seems like a lot of work for some petty jealousy.” 

“Well, welcome to Waverley Academy, these masterminds are probably all headed to Oxford next year for their trouble.”

“Well, let’s at least go check it out then,” Napoleon decided. 

Illya sighed, but he knew not to fight it anymore. He looked at his watch, “We have one hour.”

“A luxurious amount of time. Let’s go!”

So the three of them silently made their way to the ballroom— yes, the school did in fact come with a ballroom, not just a gymnasium where they covered the basketball nets with some streamers and called it a day. This was a bona fide Beauty and the Beast style ballroom and it had been decked out in sparkly decorations for the occasion, but little else. It was difficult to see where one would hide a tub of beer to be spilled on somebody and yet the three of them intrepidly searched the ceiling with three flashlights. 

There was a stage area near the back of the ballroom, perhaps where the music would be set up and speeches delivered. Here, amid the curtains, Napoleon spied a suspiciously large crate along some of the rafters. 

“Jackpot!” he whispered. He motioned to Illya and Gaby to come over and shone the flashlight up to the structure above them. 

“See the rope hanging down? This has to be it.” 

“So what do we do? Cut the rope off?” Illya asked, staring up at it. 

“No, they’d probably just set up another one, it has to be subtle enough to not draw any suspicion then fail the day of.” 

“We could fray the rope enough so that when they pull it the rope just snaps and the crate doesn’t open?” Gaby suggested. 

“There’s an idea! It’s just going to take a ladder and some time.” 

Suddenly they heard a noise. “Shit, that might be monitors!” Gaby said, “I’ll go check it out.” And she dashed off leaving Illya and Napoleon to complete the mission. 

Napoleon searched around and spotted a ladder among the pieces of decoration. 

“Peril, help me with this won’t you.” 

Illya huffed but walked over and moved the ladder, positioning it right under the crate. 

“Do you have knife?” He asked. Napoleon patted his pockets suddenly and came up empty. 

“Shit! I don’t. What do you think I should use my teeth?” 

Illya rolled his eyes and pulled a switchblade out of his pocket. He held it up for Napoleon to see. “I’m surprised you were a thief considering you are always unprepared. No wonder they caught you.”

“Hey!” Napoleon protested, “I clearly wasn’t expecting to do this tonight.” 

“I’m still against it.”

“And yet, you’re here!”

Illya smiled then, but there was a mischievous glint in his eyes. He slowly walked towards Napoleon, into his personal space until he was backed up against the ladder. Then he braced his arms on the ladder on either side of Napoleon’s face and leaned his face closer towards Napoleon’s. 

“I am only here because of you,” he whispered, “you are bad influence.” 

Napoleon giggled, suddenly nervous and worryingly aroused. How he was going to complete the rest of this mission he was unsure. Illya leaned closer and closer still until their lips met, and they kissed slow and sweet. Napoleon reached a hand up to curl along Illya’s bicep, and the other caressed the side of his face. Napoleon felt butterflies skittering around in his stomach and he cherished the warmth of Illya’s body. When he felt Illya’s tongue slip past his lips, Napoleon gasped and let out an entirely involuntary moan which made Illya laugh, a deep rumbling noise that made Napoleon’s heart race. 

“Well then,” he heard suddenly, and he and Illya started apart. Illya leaping a considerable distance back. He turned to see Gaby with her arms crossed, tapping her foot. “I leave for one second and you two completely get off track.”

“Uh, Gaby, we—”

“I don’t want to hear it Napoleon, it’s been clear to everyone that you two are obsessed with each other for months now. I’m glad you finally did something about it. Now, what about doing something about that rope?” 

Illya wordlessly handed the pocketknife to Napoleon who clambered up the ladder. He walked up to the ladder and held it steady on either side as Napoleon reached up and began to gently fray the rope. 

“How’s the view down there?” He asked cheekily. 

“I cannot complain,” Illya replied in turn. 

“You two are going to make me sick.”

Napoleon laughed, “Thanks for being so cool about this Gaby.” 

“Listen, when I tell you we all saw it coming… I’m not kidding.” 

“i suppose Napoleon is a bit obvious about how much he likes me,” Illya said.

“Hey!” Napoleon protested, “I’m not the one making moony eyes at you over my breakfast.”

“When are you going to tell everyone?” Gaby asked, innocent enough. But Napoleon’s hand stilled where he was cutting away at the rope. He glanced down at Illya who looked away. 

“I don’t know,” Napoleon answered, “we’re giving it some time.” 

“No one will care, you know,” Gaby said, “they’ll all be cool with it. They might even be happy for you.” 

“I know that,” Napoleon said, heaving a sigh, “it’s just a little complicated.”

He looked at the rope, it was hanging basically by a single thread that would snap when pulled. But, it was high enough so that no one would notice. Mission accomplished, he clambered down the ladder, and helped Illya put it back in its place. 

Illya was strangely silent on their way back to the dorms. With fifteen minutes in his monitoring shift to go, he took his seat and said goodnight to Gaby who departed for her own floor after giving them both a kiss on the cheek for their help. 

“Are you upset with me?” Illya asked suddenly when Gaby was gone. 

“What? No, Peril, why would I be upset with you?”

Illya sighed a breath of relief, “I thought— because Gaby knows…” 

“It’s okay, Illya, it’s okay. She’s right, and you were right.”

“I am always right,” Illya grinned. 

“Well, we’ll see about that.” Napoleon walked closer to Illya, who raised his chin expectantly for a kiss. Napoleon leaned down and pressed his lips to his. 

“I’m going to turn in,” he said, turning away to yawn. 

“Okay, goodnight,” Illya said, stealing a final kiss on the cheek. 

Napoleon began walking away but then turned back to see Illya still smiling at him, so he blew him a kiss before entering his room and closing the door behind him. He leaned back against the closed door and sank down, his whole being suffused with this feeling of _light_ he always got after being with Illya. He was so colossally fucked. 

To what extent his obsession with Illya had taken over was truly not something Napoleon was prepared to handle, and he became aware of that the next morning. When he walked into the dining hall to see a crowd gathered around the middle of the room. When Jones spotted him walking in, his eyes lit up and he quickly ran over to him. 

“Ah! The man of the hour! Come on in, come on in!” And with a hand on his shoulder, Jones ushered him through the crowd to the middle where— Illya waited with a dozen roses in his hands. 

Suddenly, music began to play, Frank Sinatra no less. Napoleon looked around, absolutely bewildered at the expectant faces of his classmates, and then to the waiting gaze of Illya who stood, stock still, and nervous. The petals of the roses in his hands shook a little. 

“What’s all this, Peril?” Napoleon said softly, with a smile. 

“It is romantic gesture.” 

“Oh is it?” 

“It is. Now if you will bear with me. I wanted to tell you that, you are very special to me, and I care about you a lot.”

Napoleon smiled a little wider, forgetting for a minute that everyone was watching him. He could focus only on Illya. 

“Will you go to the ball with me, Cowboy?” 

“Yes,” he said, breathless. And he ran up to wrap his arms around Illya, who hugged him back, lifting him up and spinning with him in his arms. 

And later, Napoleon would spin and swing into Illya’s arms while they were all suited up under the glittering disco lights at the dance. The music was good and their friends were close by them. But for Napoleon, just at it had when Illya had first asked him, the world fell away and there was only Illya. While it was fun to get suited up and dance with their friends, for Napoleon the most special part of the night was when Illya took him back up to his room, the two of them drunk off of each others’ presence (and a little drunk from the punch that Jones spiked), and they fell onto Illya’s bed in a tangle of embraces and kisses. 

“Peril,” Napoleon murmured between kisses, “What changed between us?” 

Illya looked a little embarrassed, “Nothing changed, not all at once.”

“You know, I wasn’t trying to seduce you or anything. If I had been, perhaps this would have all happened a lot faster.”

“It still did not take you very long.” 

“Was it just my devastating good looks? My irresistible charm?”

Illya laughed, “Those did not hurt.”

Napoleon thought he deserved a kiss for that. 

“I have never felt this way about someone before,” Illya confessed, almost in a whisper. Napoleon reached his hand up to caress the side of Illya’s face, smoothing the wrinkle in his brow with his thumb. 

“Me neither.” 

“You ask me what it was about you that made me fall for you, I think it was because you are the first person who has truly cared about me.”

Napoleon’s heart ached for the sweet boy before him. Taking either side of his face he kissed him sweetly, trying to telegraph that Illya was deserving of care and that he would care for him with every molecule of his body, that’s what he wanted to do, anyway. When he pulled away, Illya gasped for breath, a tear rolled down his cheek. Napoleon wiped it away and kissed Illya’s cheek. Illya held him close. 

“I love you,” he said. 

“Oh, Illya,” Napoleon said, he felt choked up suddenly, and he took a shaking breath. He knew he had gone past the deep end, past where he could ever go back unharmed, but he couldn’t say those words back to Illya. He loved him back, of course he did, there was no doubt in the world. But saying it almost seemed cruel, like it would seem like a lie when Illya found out the truth. Instead Napoleon kissed him, again and again. 

He felt Illya’s fingers tangle in the knot of his tie and slowly work it undone. Then his jacket was shrugged off and tossed off the bed. Then Illya ran his hands down the front of Napoleon’s shirt, running them back up to grip and tug at his collar as he kissed him, then undoing front few buttons, Illya kissed and licked along the exposed column of Napoleon’s throat. Flipping him over and pushing Napoleon down into the bed, Illya unbuttoned the rest of his shirt and peeled it off of him. Taking advantage of the expanse of skin available to him now. And all the while Napoleon moaned and whimpered helplessly lost in the overwhelming sensation of Illya. 

Napoleon felt Illya’s hand suddenly fiddling with the buckle of his belt and he stopped him, “take off your shirt first, this is terribly unfair.” Illya grinned, though something about how determined he was in these moments was even hotter to Napoleon. Illya was someone who took fun seriously and it was that contradiction that was part of what made him so alluring. His muscles didn’t hurt either and the heat and pressure of their naked chests pressed together was an unfathomable feeling. 

Those wandering hands of Illya’s found their way back to Napoleon’s belt and the waistband of his trousers and this time he did not stop him. And they did not stop that night until they had slowly discovered each others’ bodies. Napoleon had moaned Illya’s name into his shoulder, his hair, his mouth, and Illya had done the same, kissing and caressing every inch of Napoleon’s body like he was something precious, until he could think of nothing other than Illya. 

They fell asleep entangled in one another. 


	9. Chapter 9

Everyone was strangely elated by Napoleon and Illya’s relationship. They smiled at them in the halls, and when Napoleon and Illya held hands people got genuinely excited. Illya was a changed person too, no longer brooding, more often than not he was laughing or smiling at something Napoleon did or said, or even—shockingly— he was smiling just in general. 

Jones in particular was grateful, “he has not gone after me for sneaking out at night for weeks now, the freedom is amazing, I cannot thank you enough Napoleon, whatever you’re doing keep doing it, mate!” 

Napoleon laughed, it was great to see Illya so happy and it made Napoleon happy that he was the cause for it. But he knew all the while that this was temporary, and all the while he was hoping he could make the eventual implosion have as little impact as possible. So he tried to enjoy Illya’s newfound sunny disposition. 

That’s why it was odd when one day, with only a few days before graduation, Illya was in a decidedly stormy mood. Napoleon let himself into his room, taking in as always the spartan accommodations, and he found Illya hunched over his desk. Piles of ripped paper were littered around him and though his back was turned to Napoleon, he saw his chest heaving and his fingers tapping that same dangerous rhythm on the wood of the desk. 

“Peril, is everything okay?” 

“My father is coming.” 

Napoleon felt his heart jump up in his throat. This wasn’t good. 

“Oh.”

“He called me.”

The floor nearly fell away from Napoleon’s feet. Was this it? Did he know everything? 

“What did he say?” He did his best to keep his voice from shaking. 

“He wants me to take over his company. After graduation.” 

Napoleon exhaled, “Is that all?”

Illya scowled. Looking down at his hands. 

“Napoleon?”

“Hmm?”

“After graduation, are you going back to New York?”

Napoleon swallowed, nervous suddenly. He didn’t want to think about that. 

“I suppose I am.” 

“Are you going to college?”

“I don’t know, maybe.”

“Would you want to come to Moscow?”

Napoleon was stunned, “Illya, what?”

“You could live with me, I am going to start helping my father so I will have some income, and a home, and I could make you a studio for your art if you would like.” 

Napoleon felt like his heart was going to burst. “That sounds wonderful, but Illya, they don’t really like our kind in Moscow.”

Illya scowled, “That is politics. It is hateful. We cannot control but we can be discreet.” 

“Illya, have you ever known me to be discreet?”

Illya sighed, he was beginning to get frustrated with Napoleon now and he could see it. “I am just trying to find solution for us. Graduation is soon.” It was in fact, in two days. 

Napoleon leaned over and kissed him. There was a vicelike grip around Napoleon’s heart as he pushed Illya up off of his chair and down onto his bed, kissing him sweetly the whole time. He felt Illya’s heartbeat and waited for his breathing to become more even and his fingers stilled, burying themselves in Napoleon’s hair. Napoleon pulled back for a moment and looked into Illya’s eyes and his heart nearly broke. 

“I love you,” Napoleon said, helpless. Illya’s fingers tightened their grip on Napoleon’s hair and pulled him back down onto his mouth. Napoleon kissed Illya until he growled, impatient and pulled off Napoleon’s clothes and his own. Later, sticky with sweat and exhausted from pleasure, Napoleon propped himself up on his side and watched Illya catch his breath. 

“I don’t care what happens in the future, Illya, I have you now,” he whispered. Illya closed his eyes, screwing them shut tight and frowning. 

“I am talking to my father again soon, I will see what I can do.” With that, Illya turned around and went to sleep. A snore punctuated the end of the conversation and Napoleon fell on his back. He did not sleep that night, instead staring up into the ceiling to contemplate his options now. 

Napoleon finally used his one phone call that night, sneaking out of Illya’s room in the middle of the night. 

“Solo. This better be an emergency.”

“It is. Kuryakin’s father is here. My cover is going to be blown.”

“I see.”

“Sanders. Please, I know this is the mission, but I need you to let me tell him.”

“Absolutely not.” 

“Sanders. I’m begging you.”

“Your mission is to stay undercover until his father takes him back to Moscow. That is what our country owes that man, and that is it.” 

“What if I’m compromised?” 

“Then that is a problem we will deal with when you get back.”

Napoleon moved the receiver away from his ear, and he covered his mouth to stifle a sob. He took a shaking breath, screwing his eyes shut. “I understand.”

With a click, Sanders hung up the phone. Napoleon set it down and tried his best to breathe, the panic in his chest was mounting and tears were welling up in his eyes. He turned, then, to Gaby. 

He knocked on her door and she opened it with her eyes closed. Her bangs were sticking up in all different directions and she had on a look that could kill. 

“Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“It’s an emergency.” 

She sighed and let him in. As he stood, nervous, in the center of her room, she crawled back into her covers and looked at him with one eye. “Tell me.” 

“I need you to listen to me.” 

“I’m listening, it’s _five am_.”

“You’re going to think I’m crazy if I tell you this.”

“I think you’re crazy for waking me up this early. How much worse could this be?” She yawned. 

“I’m a spy.”

“What?”

“I work for the CIA and I was hired to watch Illya.”

“They don’t hire kids in the CIA.”

“Gaby. I’m serious.” 

“So what? You’ve been lying to us this whole time?”

“I’ve lied about who I am and why I’m here, but I was not lying about how much I care about you and Illya. You are my friend. I love Illya.” 

Gaby covered her face with her hands. “Why are you telling me this? Have you told Illya?”

“I haven’t yet. Won’t he hate me forever if I do?”

“Probably, but it’s better than him finding out from someone who is _not_ you.”

“You’re right.”

“Do you hate me?”

“I don’t know. Make this right with Illya and then we’ll see.” 

“I don’t know if I can, Gaby.”

“Then I hate you, now go.” 

Then Gaby grumbled and turned around wrapping herself in her duvet. Within minutes, she was snoring. Napoleon was at a loss. The last person he could think to go to was Waverley, and by the time he thought to go to him, it was a normal hour to be up. 

He knocked on Waverley’s door, and Waverley answered in his typically chipper way. 

“Good morning, Mr. Solo, bright and early here today, I see!”

“Mr. Waverley I need to tell you something. And it’s not good.”

“Oh dear, well take a seat then.” 

Napoleon practically dropped down into the chair Waverley offered and watched him settle more gently into this own seat. 

“I am compromised.”

“Is this referring to your romantic relationship with Mr. Kuryakin?”

Of course he knew. Napoleon wasn’t going to ask him how anymore. “Yes.”

“That was an unfortunate turn for things, Mr. Solo, but I deliberately chose not to stop you.”

“Why?”

“I disagreed with Adrian from the beginning about sending you here. I knew it was a bad idea, even if I did not know this would happen between you, I knew it would not turn out well for some reason. Emotions, and trust, especially are very volatile things to toy with, and to put two people so young through this…”

“What do I do now?” Napoleon was practically in tears. 

“I suggest you tell Illya the truth.”

“What?” 

“It won’t be pretty. It will destroy your relationship with him. But, you have to do this on your terms or else it will be much worse.” 

Napoleon covered his mouth and let out a sob then, not caring how embarrassing it was to do this in front of Waverley who was incredibly British and thus incredibly bad with emotion. Sympathetically he pushed a box of tissues towards Napoleon and he took one gratefully and tried to calm down. 

By the time he collected himself to go down to Illya’s room, it was almost noon. When he approached his door, he took a deep breath, and knocking twice he twisted the knob and let himself in. 

“Illya?”

Napoleon pushed the door open so slowly it creaked, and he peered inside to a terrifying sight. Every piece of furniture in Illya’s room had been turned upright. Papers were scattered everywhere, broken splints of wood plunged out of punctured and broken upholstery. Illya sat motionless, his back turned towards the door, on his mattress which had been liberated from its bed-frame. Napoleon cautiously entered, shutting the door behind him. 

“What happened?” 

“Who are you?” Illya countered, not turning around. 

“What? I don’t understand.”

This time Illya did turn around, and Napoleon saw that his eyes were rimmed red, like he had been crying, his cheeks were red and splotchy, his hair was a mess. Napoleon’s heart knew immediately: it was too late, Illya knew everything. 

But his brain needed a moment to catch up. 

“Illya, are you okay?”

“Answer my question.”

“I— I don’t know what you want me to say I’m Napoleon, I’m your—”

“Stop. You’re nothing to me.”

“Illya, what?” HIs words were like a sharp stab in Napoleon’s stomach. He felt panic rise in his throat, threatening to cut off his breath. Illya’s father. He must have told him everything.

“You are spy. My father sent you. To watch me, and trick me, and pretend you care about me.”

“Illya, please, that’s not what happened, let me explain.”

“No. I have heard enough lies from you.”

“I wasn’t lying about how I feel about you!”

Terrifyingly, Illya laughed. It was entirely humourless, manic, and afterwards he became deathly calm. 

“Do you work for CIA, yes or no?”

Napoleon swallowed, “yes.” 

“Were you sent to Waverley Academy to watch me.”

“Yes, but—”

“But nothing.”

“Illya—”

“Get out of my room.” Illya turned around then and sat back down on his mattress facing away from Napoleon.

Napoleon’s heart felt like it was scrambling in his chest. It couldn’t end like this, could it? Every cell in his body wanted to deny it, but a small part of him knew it was always going to be this way. Silently, he watched the way Illya’s shoulders were shaking from his silent sobs. All of a sudden, all he felt was numbness. The resistance was gone, it was futile. Silently, he turned and left Illya’s room. Like a zombie he walked down the hall into his own room, and he packed his bags with military efficiency. After that was done, he made his way down to the main gates where a car waited for him, likely sent by Sanders. 

 

He got in, it began to drive. Tomorrow was graduation. The world was grey. 


	10. Chapter 10

**_Ten Years Later_ **

Napoleon woke up with a warm body next to him. He looked, his eyes still bleary from sleep, at the sleeping figure of the nice woman he had met at dinner the night before. She was beautiful then as she was now, the golden light of the morning making her deep brown skin glitter. He sighed and looked around then, realizing he was not in his room. 

He sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and began to gather his clothes. Silently, getting dressed he slipped out of the room and as he stepped out onto the street he squinted his eyes against the sun. 

  
He was in London, somewhere, alone, on the tail end of another mission with the CIA and he could feel his hangover pushing against the sides of his skull. These days he felt kind of like a ghost, drifting from town to town and mission to mission. This happened _to_ him more than he really did things. 

That’s why, when he walked past a payphone and it began to ring, he didn’t think twice before doubling back and picking it up. 

“Hello?”

“It’s Sanders. Meet me in Hyde Park.”

“It’s good to hear from you after all this time.”

“Don’t be late.” 

With a click, Sanders hung up the phone. Suddenly, Napoleon saw red. Sanders was not his handler anymore. In fact, Napoleon had not seen nor spoken to the man in years. Now he had the gall to order him around again? In his anger Napoleon hit the payphone in front of him. He bashed it again and again until the rusting, ancient thing snapped off of the poll holding it up and shattered to the ground, releasing a shower of coins. 

Napoleon sighed and walked away, shoving his now bloodied hands into his pants. 

He got to the park and spotted Sanders right away, but as he got closer he noticed someone stood beside him. This figure, he did not recognize until it was too late, and he turned to face him. 

“Illya,” Napoleon croaked out his name. Panic burst in his chest as he looked at Illya. He looked well, the years had treated him kindly, and he looked almost the same way he had a decade ago, his hair was a little darker. He was looking at Napoleon with an entirely inscrutable expression neither happy nor upset to see him. Napoleon on the other hand had no idea what his eyes betrayed in that moment, when all he felt was pure shock and anxiety. He turned his gaze away as soon as his body unfroze. 

“Sanders. What is this?”

“I got a call from Mr. Kuryakin recently, tells me a threat was made on his father’s life.”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“Oh don’t you? Because he tells me a piece of intel leaked to some FBI officers looking after Kuryakin while on a visit stateside was the only thing that kept his head from an unsavoury meeting with a bullet.” 

“Why did you call me here?”

“The intel was traced back to you.” 

“And?”

“ _This_ Kuryakin called me and asked to see you.”

Napoleon looked at Illya nervously, he was aware he was acting like a wild, caged animal but it was all too much. Illya was looking at him sympathetically now, Napoleon could only read pity. It made him feel even worse. He needed to get out of here. 

“This is nice, really, but I’m afraid I can’t.” 

He started to turn and walk away, but a hand shot forward and came to grip his elbow. He turned, stunned, it was Illya. Napoleon shook out of his grip but Illya grabbed him again, both times he was shockingly gentle. It didn’t stop that familiar jolting electricity from shooting up Napoleon’s arm where he touched him. 

“Cowboy, please. Just have one coffee with me.” 

Napoleon’s resolve crumbled to dust. He followed Illya out of the park, and down the street where they settled in the back patio of a busy cafe. Illya cleared his throat suddenly and all the patrons of the cafe got up at once and cleared the area. 

They were alone. Napoleon tried to keep his breathing steady— it wasn’t easy. He looked down at Illya across the table, who looked inscrutable. Napoleon’s own expression was open, vulnerable. His heartbreak and guilt was there for anyone to see and at this point he didn’t care. Looking at the man in front of him, Napoleon felt like he was eighteen all over again. 

“I want to thank you for what you did. For my father. For me.” 

Napoleon stayed silent and waited for him to continue. Illya still wouldn’t look at him, gazing to the side, his brow furrowed now. He cleared his throat and continued after a long while. 

“I wanted to say that I forgive you.” 

Napoleon blinked. He didn’t know what to say to that. He let go of a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. 

“Thank you,” is all he could muster, his voice barely above a whisper. 

Illya looked at him then, and Napoleon nearly cowered under the intensity of his gaze. Napoleon, despite his apprehension, pasted on a smile that he knew he couldn’t quite make reach his eyes. He continued. 

“I know,” he said, his voice a little louder. “I know it was hard for you to say that so. Thank you, I really appreciate it. And what I did for Kuryakin… I didn’t do it in the hopes of being forgiven or even of seeing you again. I did it because it was the right thing to do. See, I’m still learning what that’s all about,” he laughed humourlessly, “I was an idiot, I was so cruel to you.”

“You were child,” Illya interrupted. “I have not been fair to you.” 

That gave Napoleon pause. “I know but I didn’t have to—”

“But you did. It was orders.”

“Falling in love with you were not my orders.” 

Illya looked at him then, surprise evident on his face. Napoleon took a shaky breath and continued. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Illya and that is all my fault.”

“So tell me now. I am listening.” 

Napoleon breathed in again. He suddenly felt like his skin was crawling. He looked at Illya again, then he set his jaw and started,“I was sent to Waverley to keep tabs on you. Your dad had some kind of dealings with the U.S., and apparently, as much as it horrifies me to say it, you were collateral. They said you were ‘volatile,’ and all your siblings had been targets, so my handler had the idea to send me to keep an eye on you. I don’t know if we were supposed to be friends, but falling in love with you was never the plan.” 

Illya looked at him, wordless. Napoleon felt propelled to continue, everything he had ever wanted to say flooded out of him at once. “I don’t even know why I think I have any right to say that I love you, all I did was lie to you. I was never on the soccer team. I would go to talk to Waverley to update him about you. I had been trained in military defence so if anyone made any attempts, which they did, I could stop them.”

“How? You were so young.” Illya’s concern was written plainly on his face. Napoleon took a breath. 

“I had to lie to you about my past. I really was eighteen but I didn’t have rich parents. I didn’t know my parents. I went through the system and never had any good influences. So I got into some trouble. Big trouble. I should have just gone to jail but the C.I.A. took an interest in me and struck me a deal. I would train and I would work for him and I would do the jobs that other people couldn’t. After everything at Waverley, I kept working for them, I still do.” 

Illya paused for a long time. There was nothing about that that Napoleon had enjoyed. Prostrating his sad childhood for pity made him humiliated more than anything else. But he didn’t see that withering pity in Illya’s eyes, when he finally had the courage to look. He saw something else, but he couldn’t tell exactly what. Illya was thinking. 

“What attempts?”

“Vinciguerra.”

Illya was thoughtful again. 

“You saved my life.” 

“It was my job.” _Besides,_ he thought, _you saved mine too_. 

“What about now? My father?”

“I mean, it’s what I’m trained to do…”

“You’re still assigned to me?”

“Well… no…”

“Then it wasn’t your job. Or your mission. You did it because you care about me still.” Illya’s voice was steady and certain. Napoleon wanted to kick himself.

“Am I really that obvious?”

“You look at me like lovesick puppy,” Illya grinned.

Napoleon felt his cheeks grow hot and he couldn’t help but smile back. But the longer he looked at Illya, the more he felt drunk, lightheaded. Illya was glowing like the sun, and Napoleon had never felt warmer. But that familiar spike of anxiety shot up in Napoleon’s chest again and his smile faded. He looked away, not able to take the intensity of Illya’s stare any longer. He stood up from the table, and Illya stood up with him, his face suddenly concerned. 

“It was nice to see you, and to talk, but I should go.” 

“Was it something I said?” 

“No. No, you’re fine. It’s me.” He stepped out from behind the table and took a few steps back, eyeing the door, but still facing Illya. “I can’t do this to you again.” He turned then and began to walk to the door. 

“What do you mean?”

“Why should you ever trust me again, after what I did, I’m sorry,” Napoleon suddenly couldn’t breathe. He turned away and started to move faster. 

“Don’t run away from me, Cowboy.”

Napoleon froze, he turned back around, a good few feet away from Illya it felt a little safer, so he said, “I haven’t heard that nickname in a long time.”

Illya paused for a moment, he took a breath, “I still love you too. I never stopped.” 

Napoleon’s stomach plummeted, he felt tears rush into his eyes. Illya at once walked right up to him, getting in his personal space. Napoleon nearly collapsed into him as Illya wrapped his arms around him. Napoleon placed his arms around Illya’s waist and hugged him back, holding on as if he would disappear if he let go. Napoleon buried his face in Illya’s chest and breathed in a shuddering breath. He concentrated and willed his tears to recede, gaining control of his voice, he tilted his head up and looked at Illya. Illya’s eyes shone as well, glazed over with emotion. 

“I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you.”

Illya looked annoyed at him, which made him laugh. “You are an idiot for saying that, and you deserve me because I am an idiot too, for letting you go for ten years. I do not want to be without you another second.”

Napoleon surged up and kissed him. The kiss was deep and lingering; it was ten years in the making. Illya held on to either side of Napoleon’s face, tilting his head and pressing him even closer. Napoleon felt like he was melting into Illya’s arms, he ran his hands up the muscles on his back and along his broad shoulders. He felt like he had let go of a breath he had been holding for a decade; he felt like he was finally home. When they finally stopped, Napoleon had no idea, hours could have passed. 

They were both breathing heavily as they looked at each other. Illya leaned forwards and touched their foreheads together. He murmured, “let’s go somewhere else.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> the thesis of this is that napoleon is a reckless, reckless individual  
> title from mitski - two slow dancers


End file.
